Saving Grace
by stineblicher
Summary: Can a man that has lost everything find strength enough to rebuild his life? Can he be redeemed, saved from despair? Can the Phantom have a second chance? Not an Erik OW. Now complete!
1. Default Chapter

**Saving Grace**

Nadir Khan stepped out of the carriage and glanced up and down the street. It was deserted. Darius, who'd been sitting by the coachman, had already opened the front door of the building. Nadir turned around and offered his hand to the other passenger. He really didn't expect his friend, who usually avoided physical contact, to take it. He was utterly surprised when a bony hand grasped his and used Nadir's strength as support to descend the two steps.

Once in the street, Erik released Nadir's hand and haltingly crossed the distance to the door by himself but he miscalculated the height of the threshold and stumbled upon it. He had to grasp the doorjamb to stop his fall. Nadir hurried to Erik's side and made him put his arm around his shoulders. He surrounded Erik's waist with his arm and helped him cross the dimly lit foyer. Erik's steps were too slow, too uncertain, and Nadir thought he should have insisted in having Erik stay longer at the apartment in the Rue de Rivoli. Erik wouldn't be able to cope by himself yet, no matter what he stubbornly maintained. When they reached the stairs, Erik was already breathing heavily.

"The apartment is on the third floor, my friend," Nadir explained. Erik nodded and grasped the banister with his free hand. They slowly started to climb.

On the first landing, Nadir stopped.

"I think we should take a break. We've got three floors to go."

"Really, Daroga, my wounds did not affect my brain. . . I can still count by myself," Erik complained as he leant upon the banister and massaged his shoulder in what had by then become a reflex movement.

Nadir was relieved to listen to his light tone, but he remembered the sight of Erik, lying on the farthest shore of the underground lake, half of his body underwater and his shirt stained with blood, and he shuddered. That memory still haunted him although he'd seen much worse in his days as the Daroga of Mazanderan.

"I was only saying that in behalf of the concierge," he explained, nodding towards the light that came from the crack of the door in the foyer. "I think it would be enlightening for her to listen to us speak Farsi."

"And why is that so?" Erik's voice sounded faintly bemused.

"I told her you were my brother, that you were recovering from a long standing illness you'd acquired back home. She'll let you be," Nadir explained with a tinge of sarcasm in his voice. "There's nothing like a foreign, unknown disease to keep prying eyes at a distance."

Erik detected the slight bitterness in Nadir's voice. And then, the full extent of Nadir's words hit him. The Daroga had publicly claimed to be his brother. The brother of an infidel, an underdog, a murderer. Erik took a deep, shuddering breath.

"To make her listen to us. . . Such an innocent trick. I thought the Daroga of Mazanderan knew better than that," he said when he had recovered his voice.

"Well, if you come across something better do tell me," Nadir growled as he directed Erik to the next step.

Darius opened the door of the apartment, and Nadir helped Erik to cross the foyer and the sitting room and lowered him on the couch. He straightened his back and had a look around. Darius had already lit the lamps on the mantle and was drawing the curtains. Erik reclined his head on the back of the couch and closed his eyes.

"I think we should put you to bed," prodded Nadir, gently.

Erik had been out of bed and limping around the apartment in the Rue de Rivoli for a week now, but this was his first trip outside, and it had evidently exhausted him. Erik's hand waved dismissively.

"I'll do it later," he whispered. And after a beat: "Would you like something to drink?"

Nadir had to smile. Not two minutes after entering his new quarters, Erik was already playing the perfect host. Perhaps the change would do him good, after all.

"Tea," answered Nadir, and motioned Darius to make it. "Would you prefer something stronger? Sherry? Cognac, perhaps?"

Erik shook his head feebly, eyes still closed.

"Tea is fine."

Nadir sat on one of the armchairs, in front of the fireplace. Maybe it was time to add another log to the fire which Darius had lit earlier that evening. He dismissed the idea, after casting a look at Erik's form on the couch. Nadir was aware of how keen were Erik's ears. Any movement Nadir made would disturb him, and he seemed at the verge of sleep. Nadir contented himself with watching the low flames. After a while, he sensed a difference in the room and lifted his eyes to find Erik staring at him.

"Nice rooms," said Erik. "Thanks for the carpet."

Nadir nodded in surprise. He hadn't expected such a direct expression of gratitude, though he knew Erik would appreciate the carpets he'd brought from the Rue de Rivoli to cover the wooden floor. There was another one (his best) covering the floor in Erik's room as well.

"The… dining room is right behind you," he explained. "And your room is the one next to it, down the hall. The kitchen is at the back."

"You can give me the grand tour tomorrow," said Erik with a lopsided smile. Then he faltered. "Are you…?"

It pained Nadir to see Erik's stark vulnerability. The affair with Christine Daaé, the shattering of his house, the loss of his music, and of the bizarre but independent life he had managed to make for himself underneath the Opera had truly broken him.

"Would two o'clock be convenient for you, my friend?"

"Anytime, Daroga."

The fact that Erik's words didn't convey a single note of irony only made Nadir more distraught. Luckily, Darius chose that moment to appear with a tray and two cups of tea. The manservant squeezed some lemon in Erik's cup and stirred in two spoonfuls of sugar before handing it to him. Nadir watched with a smile as Erik had a sip of tea and grimaced. In the past, he would have never endured a cup of tea with so much sugar, but coming from Darius, he somehow accepted it.

It amused Nadir to see the change that had occurred in Darius pertaining Erik, almost as much as it amused him to see Erik accepting Darius' care. From feeling a deep fear and hatred for the man he'd considered to be a demon, Darius had gone to consider as one of his personal duties to make Erik regain his health.

Nadir was not sure what had caused the change. Maybe finding the evil spirit lying helplessly on the bank of the lake had done it; maybe it had been Erik's courage in enduring the pain while they extracted the bullets from his thigh and left shoulder, or maybe the stubbornness with which he braved the pneumonia that followed had prompted a new respect in Darius. Anyway, Nadir could only rejoice at the change, since Darius would watch over what Erik ate now that he would start living on his own again. And now that he thought about eating. . .

"It would be nice if you invited me to lunch to celebrate your new lodgings, my friend. How about tomorrow?"

Erik huffed.

"Don't tempt your luck, Daroga."

There was a brief silence. Nadir had the last sip of his tea and left the cup on the tray.

"I'll be here at two o'clock, then. Good night, Erik."

Nadir thought it best to leave unsaid whether he'd come for lunch or not. He was sure Erik would not eat much in the morning, anyway. It would be better to make sure he had something to eat in the afternoon. He paused in the doorway for a moment, considering whether it would be fruitful to try and get Erik to bed right away. He would spend the night on the couch if left by himself.

"Good night, Daroga," came Erik's voice, with a slight undertone of threat.

Nadir stepped out to the hall. Darius was coming with a blanket and a pillow in his hands. The manservant left both tings beside Erik, added a couple of logs to the fire and collected the tray. Nadir nodded at him when he emerged from the room. At least Erik wouldn't freeze if he spent the night on the couch, thought Nadir, as he made his way out of the apartment.


	2. Chapter 2

Erik woke up with a start. His breath caught painfully in his throat and his body tensed. He tried to stay still, his senses frantically assessing his surroundings. What was that slight tapering sound? It was nothing he would hear in his underground lair. It was more like. . . Like the branches of trees against some hard surface. He winced involuntarily at the memory of the sound of branches brushing the tin roof of a cart. No, no, the rational part of his mind argued. It wasn't possible. He had left the fair behind a long time ago. The pain, however. . . The force of the memory was too strong and he cowered, tightening his eyelids, his arms covering his head. They would come soon. Javert would come and beat him, force him to perform. . . After some time of inner battle, he bravely opened his eyes. He found himself facing the embers of a fire and sighed in relief. He was indoors, and he was alone. He took a deep breath, starting to relax. Gradually, he remembered where he was, why he was where he was.

With a groan, he steadied himself on his right arm and shakily sat up. His back was sore, his neck ached and his left shoulder was throbbing painfully. He tried to move it around to loosen the cramped muscles, but a sudden flash of pain made him whimper. Damn wound. It wasn't healing properly. Neither was the one in his thigh. He had tried stretching and exercising the muscles in the past days, for he knew that if he indulged and didn't move they would contract and leave him with a heavy limp and a stiff shoulder for the rest of his days, but the pain and tightness hadn't lessened.

Carefully, he flexed his arm. Sleeping on the couch hadn't been a good idea. He sighed. He hadn't thought he would fall asleep, being in a new place and all. But he had evidently been so exhausted that even the old instincts hadn't been enough to fight his drowsiness. He awkwardly rubbed his uncovered eye with his right thumb.

He knew his body needed the sleep, but it also worried him that his instincts were not as sharp anymore. Only his instincts had kept him alive all these years. And yet. . . Why did he care that his instincts were dulling? His damned instincts had betrayed him when he had been shot in the cellars of the Opéra. As if it hadn't been enough that the clowns that had shot him hadn't had any decent aim, his visceral will to live had kicked in when he'd fallen into the lake, prompting him to hold his breath when he'd fallen and then forcing him to swim underwater towards the farthest shore.

Erik shook his head ruefully. He should be dead by now, sunk into oblivion, and not lingering in this bleak Limbo. Damned instincts. Damned Daroga. If the Persian hadn't had such a disproportionate sense of righteousness, if he hadn't been so courageous, he wouldn't have ventured once again underneath the Opéra, and Erik would have found his peace on that shore. He would have bled to death, or perhaps died of hypothermia. Or both. It would have been a peaceful demise. He huffed and ran his hand through his dishevelled hair. No good in crying over spilt milk, he thought in self-mockery. He looked at his wrinkled clothes. He needed to wash and to change.

With an effort, he pushed himself to his feet and hobbled out of the living room and down the hall. He'd prove to the Daroga he was recovering. Maybe then Nadir would stop hovering over him like a mother hen.

Erik tugged at the edges of the waistcoat to straighten it and cursed under his breath, when the deep pain ripped through his shoulder and chest. Despite the long weeks in which he had been laid up, despite knowing the pain would stab him if he moved his arm or put his weight on his right leg, it still angered him that he had to think twice to perform the most trivial tasks such as lifting a cup or getting dressed. He hated moving so awkwardly, so slowly.

Exasperated, he crossed the room and plumped on the narrow bed. He stared vacantly at the intricate patterns of the carpet for a long time before he realized his mind had been wandering. He was so tired. He shook his head ruefully, acknowledging the fact he still was unbelievably weak. He lay down on the bed and rolled to his back. Maybe a short nap was in order.

He smiled ironically behind the mask. All those years of keeping himself awake until he literally dropped from exhaustion because he feared the nightmares that plagued him, and now he was just indulging like a dotard. The nightmares had continued, and they were as terrifying as they had been in the past, but he had stopped fighting sleep altogether. That was strange. Why wouldn't he. . . His eyes began to slide shut, and he abandoned the thought.

He had been drifting in that twilight zone between sleeping and waking where thoughts detach themselves from their real importance when he heard the front door open. He stood up with a jolt and staggered, his right leg sinking under his weight.

Cursing his clumsiness, he looked around desperately, trying to find a place to hide. As silently and fast as he could, he retreated to the side of the wardrobe, flattening his back against the wall. He realised that he didn't have any weapons and that he was too weak to wrestle with anyone who'd come for him. He inched closer to the wardrobe, overwhelmed by the stiffening panic of a cornered beast.

Heavy feet came closer. There was a knock at the door. Erik held his breath, and the door opened. Darius scanned the room. Erik released his breath, and stepped forward, leaning against the wardrobe. Better to bear the humiliation of his overreaction straight away, was his self-deprecating thought. Darius regarded him with dispassionate eyes and then bowed.

"Would you like some breakfast, sir?"

Erik nodded, unable to utter a sound. Darius bowed again and closed the door behind him.

**Author's notes: **thanks Violetrose and Pemberlee for the reviews. I hope this story meets your expectations!


	3. Chapter 3

Nadir cast a quick look at Erik from underneath his thick eyebrows. His gaze lingered but a few seconds on Erik's abstracted countenance, and then fell to the chessboard again. It had been a long time since Nadir had moved his piece, and Erik had not made the slightest attempt at making his move yet. Nadir chewed at the corner of his moustache, repressing a sigh. Before what now Nadir used to think about as the disaster below the Opéra, it would have been him the one to take his time to make a move, while Erik studied him amusedly. And if Nadir had made so much as to move an eyelash, Erik would have instantly noticed, and supplied one of his scathing ironies.

Nadir had hoped Erik would start claiming back his life as his body healed. He had somehow managed to delude himself during the two painful months Erik spent in his home, recovering from his wounds and fighting the illness in his lungs. Although it had taken Erik much longer to regain his health than what it normally had taken him to recover from any other ailment he had suffered since he'd first met Nadir, the Persian had thought that it was only due to the fact that his friend was fighting in a double front, so to speak. Erik would get back on his feet again in no time, once he was out of bed and free from his and Darius' imposing presence, Nadir had told himself.

But now, after a week of living by himself in the new apartment, Erik was still leading the same dull, empty, stifling routine he had maintained in his last days in the apartment at the Rue de Rivoli. If Nadir came during the morning he would catch Erik still in bed more often than not. If he came in the afternoon or the evening, he'd find his friend sitting on the couch, staring vacantly into the flames of the fireplace.

The cover of the piano Nadir had rented and had installed in the empty dining room was still closed, and so was the case containing the new violin. The leather case in which Nadir had placed the remains of Erik's musical scores was gathering dust on a table beside it, as were the stacks of white paper and the writing and drawing implements on the desk in Erik's room. The books and newspapers on the coffee table remained untouched. The few plants the Persian had bought would have died without water hadn't Darius been there to tend them. Not even the familiar game of chess was enough to attract Erik's attention now.

Nadir shook his head. It was a pity to watch such a brilliant man drowning in the depths of the pain of loss and shattered self-belief.

"Was my move so foolish that it prompted such disapproval, Daroga?"

Erik's voice held a trace of his once usual irony and it pleased Nadir to an absurd degree. That voice had been only tinged with toneless despair as of late. Nadir cleared his throat in an attempt to cover both his compassion and his joy.

"Which piece did you move?" he asked, as he cast an innocent look at Erik.

Erik's hands rose in mock exasperation.

"Really, Daroga, I thought my game was dull but not _that _dull!" He exclaimed.

With even more joy, Nadir saw the trace of a smile touch the corner of Erik's mouth. He chuckled.

"You must forgive my absentmindedness. Years do not come alone," he excused himself.

"Nonsense," Erik said, dismissing his excuse with a wave of his hand.

He had not completed the movement when he started coughing.

Nadir watched helplessly as Erik doubled over, one of his hands grasping the arm of the chair, the other covering his mouth. Nadir stood up and hurried to the kitchen to retrieve a glass of water. Long minutes passed in which Erik's body racked under the coughing fit.

At last it subsided, and Nadir offered him the glass. Erik took it shakily and had a couple of sips before slowly leaning back. The side of the armchair covered his face in shadow, but the Persian could still hear his laboured breath.

Nadir pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers to avoid staring. He rubbed his eyes.

"I'm sorry, my friend," he said. "I think we must call it a night. Perhaps we could continue tomorrow," he added gesturing at the chess board and fearing Erik would take offence at his fussing.

He was even more dismayed to see that the man who sat across him nodded wearily.

Nadir stood up.

"I gather. . . You already know the way out," rasped Erik and it was his friend's time to nod.

He watched as the Persian put on his overcoat and his hat.

"Good night, my friend."

"Good night," Erik answered, and sighed when the door finally closed after the man that had once been his hated enemy.

* * *

Something jerked him awake. It took him a while to identify the thump of the wooden cages and the rattling of the bottles of milk as the milkman arranged them in his cart, in the inner courtyard. Erik shut his eyes a little bit tighter, but the dim light of dawn, slipping through the thick curtains, was enough to bother him. He draped his right arm over his head. There. The solid mass of his flesh blocked light as effectively as the four cellars above his lair in the Opéra. And just when he was about to sink into slumber, the clattering of the wheels of the milkman's cart hauled him into consciousness again.

Muttering curses in every language he knew, Erik threw the covers to one side and stood up. The intensity of his cursing increased with the stabbing pain in his leg. He put on his mask, limped towards the window and cast the crepe curtains aside. The veil curtains that hung behind them were thick enough to hide him from prying eyes, Erik knew, so he stayed by the window, blinking in the light.

So many years of living five stories underground, away from the world, had sharpened his senses to such an extent that now the slightest light or noise bothered him. He knew that no matter what he did, the morning sounds of the neighbourhood wouldn't let him go to sleep again.

Better to start the day, then. Get washed, get dressed, conjure enough energy to make a cup of tea, drop on the bed in exhaustion, count the cracks of the paint on the ceiling. Maybe, if he was lucky, fall asleep for a short while. Sleep was eluding him lately. Perhaps it was a good sign, his body must be healing, he thought, and then he snorted. Why would his healing body be any kind of good sign? There was nothing for him in this stretch of empty time he called his life. Nothing to look forward to, nothing to look back on with anything but self disgust. He turned his back to the light, clumsily. It was time to start another bleak, pointless day.

* * *

Erik had just mustered enough energy to skim through the newspaper the Daroga had brought the day before when a bellow from the ground floor shattered his concentration. The screams were muffled by the three stories that separated the ground floor from the third, by the thick walls and the closed doors. They would hardly have been noticed by anyone with normal hearing, but for Erik they were deafening roars. All the hustle bustle of the neighbourhood disturbed him, but none of the noises that jarred his senses during the day and part of the night was as bad as this one. It made him physically sick.

The concierge, a fat, middle aged woman was screaming at her daughter. Erik had only caught few glimpses of the child. She was a shabby, scrawny creature about five years old, with matted auburn curls and pale skin. She would often be out in the courtyard, but she would never run, scream or play as other children her age. She would huddle in a corner and talk to herself, in the good days. In the bad ones, she would huddle in a corner and cry.

A painful knot seized Erik's stomach in an iron grip. The bellowing had increased and he guessed the woman had gone out of the porter's lodge and would soon cross the inner courtyard. He stood up and went to his room. He peeked through the veil curtains. There she was, dragging the child by one ear. The woman opened the door of the coal room and threw the little girl in the dark interior. She slammed the door and turned around. Erik backed a step.

He stood perfectly still, pricking up his ears, and soon he heard the sobs, despite the distance and the door of the deposit. His jaw clenched in a supreme effort to control his anger and the churning in his stomach. He paced to the other end of the room, taking controlled breaths. When he had reached the wall, he turned around and paced back, making sure he stretched the muscles of his right leg.

He had crossed the room several times when the air in the little chamber became stuffy and oppressive. He went out to the long hall, which stretched along the whole apartment, and there he resumed his pacing. His steps quickly found a rhythm which matched the sentence he'd been repeating to himself:

"It's none of your concern, none of your concern, none of your concern, none of your concern. . ."

Nadir threw a glance at Erik, apparently engrossed in the newspaper. During the last few days, it seemed Erik was somehow finally coming close to himself. He still moved slowly and hesitantly, and both the piano and the violin remained untouched, but the scathing remarks that had poured from his friend's mouth every few minutes in the old times were dotting their conversations more and more often. Erik also appeared to have recovered part of his concentration. Instead of staring into the flames or into space, he now spent part of his evenings scanning and commenting the latest news and gossip of the city, and Nadir's heart had warmed the day he had found a book lying open, face down, on the couch. And today he'd seen the old fire smouldering in the depths of Erik's eyes, despite his friend's attempts at keeping an icy façade.

Nadir couldn't tell whether he should be happy or worried at the light shining in there. It was the light of anger, the scorching fury that had brought so much misfortune to so many people, including his friend, in the past. Nadir repressed a sigh and stared at the contents of his glass. He raised his brows, in resignation. Erik's quick temper had always been a part of him, just as his brilliant intellect and his unyielding pride. And, speaking in earnest, if the irascibility hadn't come back, Nadir would have missed it. And yet, he'd now have to postpone his plans for that evening for, if he put them in practice, his actions would have the opposite effect of the one he had intended.


	4. Chapter 4

Nadir had to wait almost a week to put his scheme into practice for in those days Erik's nerves were raw. He hardly tolerated more than a glance thrown at him over the chess board, and his game, which in the last few weeks had been coming closer to its former brilliancy, had become careless again. Every evening, Erik quickly scanned the newspaper and threw it in exasperation after few minutes, and he snorted or replied with monosyllables at the few casual comments Nadir ventured.

So Nadir was pleased the day Erik received him with an offer of cognac when he entered the sitting room. Today would be the day to try to draw Erik closer to music.

After making a bit of small talk and ordering Darius, despite Erik's protests, to bring supper from a nearby restaurant, Nadir fell silent, waiting for Erik to start reading that day's newspaper. But instead of scanning any of the other newspapers that littered the coffee table, Nadir just fell silent and finished his cognac. After what he considered a substantial amount of time had passed by, he stood up and walked to the window. He idly peeked outside for a moment, and then he wandered to the glass door that divided the dining room from the sitting room. He opened it and paced in the dining room before sitting on the piano bench. He caressed the smooth surface of the instrument, fully aware of the fact that Erik had been following his every move.

Nadir finally opened the cover of the piano and touched one of the keys. A slightly discordant note resounded in the room. He lifted his finger and waited. There wasn't any movement in the sitting room. Nadir tried another key. Still nothing. Feeling a little bit more daring, Nadir extended his hand over the keyboard and mimicked the position of Erik's fingers when he played a chord. He almost shrank at the result. It was dreadful. Nevertheless, he extended his other hand and tried another one.

A roar almost knocked him out of the bench.

"Daroga!"

Nadir turned around to find Erik standing at the threshold, leaning on the frame of the door, his posture as threatening as if he was impersonating the Opera Ghost again. Somehow, Nadir managed to compose his features in what he thought was an innocent look.

"What, my friend?"

"What? _What?_" Erik growled. "Are you trying to torture me? That piano is completely off key!"

Nadir's eyebrows darted upwards.

"Is that the reason why you haven't played it yet?"

Erik grasped the frame of the door tightly. He glared at the Persian. Surely, _this_ was too much. Nadir was overstepping the last boundary.

"That is _none_ of your concern, Daroga," he seethed.

But Nadir didn't hear him. He was now staring down at the keys.

"Would you allow me to hire someone to tune it? I would send Darius to ensure. . ."

In an instant, Erik was by his side, and it startled Nadir. Erik hadn't moved so fast since the days he'd haunted the Opéra. One of his hands clasped Nadir's shoulder; the other one slammed the cover of the piano shut. The whole instrument resonated harshly, but Erik seemed to take no notice of the noise.

"If I wanted to play, I would have tuned it _myself_. I would have even gone out to purchase the instruments I needed," he hissed.

His voice was hoarse and his eyes burned with pain. Nadir's darted away.

After a very long time, they heard the front door open. Erik's grasp on Nadir's shoulder lessened, and Erik turned around.

"Come Daroga," he said wearily as he hobbled towards the sitting room. "Let's have something to eat."

Three days later, Erik walked one morning into the living room to find a small case lying on the mantelpiece. He couldn't hold back a gasp when he opened it and recognized the tuning fork, mutes and handles. He snapped it closed, in irritation.

That evening, he studied the Daroga closely, but the Persian didn't even cast a glance at the case. It was as if the damned object didn't exist. Erik muttered a few curses under his breath, but decided to ignore that particular intrusion. If the Daroga could feign to oversee the existence of an object he had brought himself, so could Erik.

* * *

Some days later, Nadir had to repress a smile when he entered the sitting room and found Erik, who'd gotten rid of his jacket and waistcoat and had rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, bent over the open piano.

"Not a word, Daroga," he grumbled. "Or I shall throw the damned thing down the stairs."

Wisely, Nadir served two glasses of cognac and handed one to his friend, in silence.

Nonetheless, despite the fact that he tuned the piano to perfection, Erik didn't play. He tried a song that first evening, to check out that he hadn't missed anything, he told Nadir, but then he closed the instrument and he hadn't come near it since then.

It was with dismay that Nadir noticed the surface of the piano had started gathering dust once again.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's notes: **Well, here's chapter five of this story. I really wouldn't mind getting some reviews, if only to say you have liked it so far. . . I know it has been a little slow in the start and that the summary is perhaps not the most exciting, but. . . I feel miserable with so little response! (SNIF)

I would also like to know how you make fanfic net accept double spacing. I would like to put a little bit more "air" between the chapter subdivision, but have failed miserably. Virtual chocolate cookies to anyone that comes with suggestions...

* * *

Erik played absently with the box of matches lying on the mantelpiece. After shaking it a little and weighing it in his hand, he left it back in place. He trailed the edge of the shade of one of the gas lamps with his fingertips and then checked them. Not a single trace of soot. Darius was doing a remarkable good job. Erik would have to discuss with Nadir about giving him some kind of bonus, though Erik had no idea about how much money he still had. The Daroga had coaxed out of him the hiding place of the gold and jewels from his compensation from the Shah and the francs from his salary as the Opera Ghost while he'd been ill and had been acting as his administrator ever since. Not that it angered him, really. Things had mattered so little ever since Christine. . . Erik closed his eyes tightly against the pain, shook his head to drive away the thought. Anyway, Darius was handling the workload of two households and he should be rewarded for it.

Erik's hand wandered on over the mantelpiece and bumped into the box containing the tuning instruments. He opened and closed the lid while he wondered how it had ended up there again. Since he had tuned the piano, he had all but forgotten about its existence. Maybe Darius thought it was a fine decoration for the otherwise barren mantelpiece.

Having finished his recognition of the objects over the fireplace, Erik wandered to the window. The branches of the tree on the sidewalk were covered with new shoots. Erik wondered at the light shade of green, how it gently filtered the rays of the warming sun. Spring had eventually arrived and he had to admit that it lifted his spirits somewhat. He'd lived so long underneath the Paris Opera, oblivious of the change of seasons, that the simple renewal of life taking place in front of him seemed something of a miracle.

The change in the weather had also affected him. The nagging cough, the after effect of the illness in his lungs, had all but disappeared. His wounds didn't hurt as much now, and his limp had diminished considerably. Of course, he knew all that was not the result of the renewal of nature, but of regular meals, rest and daily exercise, but he couldn't help the feeling that he was, in a way, connected to the world again. Erik smiled in self mockery. His brain had to be going rancid to conceive such nonsense.

Slowly, he wandered to the glass door. He caught sight of the piano and wondered whether it was still tuned. Of course it was tuned, he scolded himself. It had been less than a month since he'd done it, and he'd gone through the work with an obsessive care.

He opened the door and wandered into what he'd begun to consider the music room, though no music had ever been played in there. His sight rested on the two cases on the table by the window. A knot tightened in his stomach. Not long ago, in one of his wanderings through the apartment, his curiosity had driven him to open them.

One held a fine violin. The other one, the remains of his music scores. He had gone through them: the opening of _Don Juan Triumphant_, a sonata, a quartet he'd never finished, fragments of a symphony. The pages had been carefully smoothened and glued together. Some of them had burnt edges. Erik guessed that whatever was not in the case had been reduced to ashes or ripped beyond repair. Darius and Nadir had gathered the salvageable remnants from the floor of his lair and had put them together. He had imagined what a task it had been for two men who couldn't read any music, to find the matching pieces, to put together what was left of his music. Wonderingly, he had leafed through the remains of his works until he had come across the songs he'd written for Christine. That had been too much, and he'd closed the case. He hadn't dared open it since then.

Erik's eyes turned from the table and fell upon the cover of the piano. He opened it, and touched one of the keys. The instrument emitted a perfect sound. A single piece, he thought. He would play a simple song to make sure it was still tuned. He sat on the bench.

* * *

Erik sipped the remnants of his breakfast tea and stood up. He had sent Darius away in what he hoped would be a long errand. He wanted to play a little bit, and he didn't want to have any witnesses. He had barely endured Nadir's gloating the day his friend had come an hour earlier than what he used to and caught him practicing scales on the piano. The next days, Nadir's self satisfied grin had kept Erik on edge. The Daroga seemed to think that getting him back to play was some kind of redemption. Erik snorted. If he only knew. . .

Practicing scales and playing tunes on the piano helped him to stretch the muscles on his left shoulder and to retain the dexterity of his hands. It also served well as a means to pass the time, but he was far from renewing his bond with music. He didn't dare to play anything by his favourite composers, much less to play anything he had himself composed. He feared the feelings the music stirred.

For such a long time had music been the only way to give voice to everything that laid dormant within him, everything that could not be expressed through words barely because there was no one there to listen. And then. . . then he had met Christine, and he had dared to hope. . . to dream. . .

Erik opened the piano with a slam. He chose a popular gigue, a fast dance in triple time. It wasn't a challenging piece by any means, but it was tricky enough to engage his attention and drive the hurtful thoughts away.

* * *

He was about to start another light piece when he heard the tell tale creak on the back door. Somebody was leaning on it. Erik frowned. It had been happening repeatedly in the past days. Whenever he played the piano, he'd hear, sooner or later, the faint creak of the hinges, if not when his listener arrived, then when he left, after Erik stopped playing. Whoever it was, he liked his music for he stayed there as long as Erik played.

Erik considered rushing out to the hall, opening the door and scaring whoever it was out of his socks but, once again, decided against it. The Phantom of the Opera was still a wanted man and he would fare better if his face, his mask, were not seen at all. He sighed. Despite the size of the apartment, larger than Nadir's at the Rue de Rivoli, he had started to feel trapped. All the years he'd spent underneath the Opéra Populaire had done nothing to quell his fear for closed places. In the Opéra there had been kilometres of halls and passages, and whenever he had wanted a breath of fresh air he'd been able to climb to the roof and tower above the city.

He started playing a bal-musette, one of those popular songs that were being played and danced in the cafés. And then he got an idea. He played a couple of pieces, making long pauses between them. He finished the last one and rose from the piano. He tiptoed down the hall. He reached the back door and waited. After a while, the door gave way, the hinges creaked. His audience had stopped leaning against it, and would be descending the stairs. Quietly, he unbolted the door and opened it a crack. He peeked outside, being careful to keep the masked side of his face hidden. He caught sight of a tousled auburn head right before the concierge's daughter disappeared down the service stairs. Erik smiled to himself as he closed the door. So this was his furtive listener.

The next morning, right before he started playing, he left a glass of milk and a plate with a piece of cake outside the back door. He would play, and when his guest had left, he would pick up the glass and plate. Nobody else would notice. The maids on the apartment above his went out on errands earlier in the morning and the concierge had never ventured above the second floor of the building.


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's notes: **Thank you Chibi Binasu-Chan and Allegratree for the reviews. Allegratree: Point taken. I'm happy to know you've enjoyed it so far. And thanks for including it in your favourite stories!

To other readers: Please, write a couple of lines. I am really interested in knowing what you think about the story so far.

* * *

Nadir darted a glance towards Erik across the table. Erik was meticulously stripping the fish on his plate with elegant movements, worthy of a surgeon. But what had struck Nadir's notice weren't Erik's table manners. There was a certain glow to his eyes, the trace of a smile on his lips. . . He almost seemed. . . cheerful. Nadir blinked when he applied the adjective to his friend. It had been so seldom he'd experienced Erik's debonair that he had trouble connecting the two. 

"I'm sure I'm a wonderful subject for study, but maybe you could stop staring Daroga, and pass me the sauce?"

Despite the light tone, Erik's words held a trace of irritation, and Nadir's eyes darted away. He should know better than to goggle at Erik, who had always been extremely uncomfortable with people looking at him. A lifetime of being stared at could do that to a man. Besides. . . Nadir tried to steady the hand which held the sauce boat when a chill ran down his spine, remembering the few allusions Erik had made about the time he'd spent with the travelling fair.

They had been so veiled, so subtle, that it had taken Nadir a long time and a trip to one of those monstrous displays called freak shows to understand the implications of Erik's words. For the thousandth time, Nadir wondered how the French could call themselves a civilized nation if they allowed people to be caged and displayed like animals. The men that ran those shows were certainly not better than the cruellest slave traders Nadir had met back in Persia.

"I said thank you, Daroga. Could you release the sauce? Unless you want it all for yourself."

Erik could hardly contain his amusement. Only then Nadir noticed he'd been grasping one of the ends of the sauce boat while Erik held the other. He released his grip and avoided Erik's penetrating gaze. He clearly saw how amusement blended with a certain concern in Erik's eyes, and Nadir couldn't help wondering whether Erik had been finding that same concern in his eyes in the past months. He must have hated it. Nadir cleared his throat to hide his embarrassment.

"I'm sorry, my friend. I'm a bit tired this evening."

He prayed to Allah Erik wouldn't detect the lie in his words and sighed inwardly when he saw his friend nod lightly and serve a generous amount of sauce over his vegetables.

"You, on the other hand, seem to be in high spirits," he ventured, already anticipating the sarcastic remark that would follow.

He was astonished when Erik looked up and raised his visible eyebrow.

"Do I?" he wondered. "Well, maybe I am."

There was a short pause, in which Erik seemed to be contemplating whether or not to voice his thoughts aloud.

"Don't you find it ridiculous Daroga, that spring should, after all these years, still lighten one's mood?"

Nadir considered Erik's words briefly.

"Well, I suppose it must come as a surprise after the years you spent. . . indoors."

Erik was more amused than annoyed at Nadir's crass understatement of his life under the Opéra.

"_Indoors_," he repeated, just to make the Persian flinch.

He smiled to himself when he got the desired effect, and had a bite of fish.

Actually, he was pleased the Daroga hadn't even hinted at the source of his light mood. His little furtive audience had been assiduously coming to hear him play every morning, and had been dutifully emptying the glass of milk and plate of cake or pastries he left for her at his doorstep.

He hadn't tried to meet her since the first glimpse he'd had of her in the servant's staircase. He didn't want to scare her. But he'd spied her from his bedroom window when she went out to the courtyard. She'd been happily chatting to herself these days, and that same afternoon Erik had caught her humming one of the tunes he'd played earlier in the morning. He found it utterly absurd that he should be delighted by that, but he couldn't help himself.

* * *

Erik struck a false note when he heard the shouts coming from the main foyer of the building. His hands froze over the keys. The roars diminished in intensity and then rose again, this time coming from the back of the apartment. The witch was standing at the bottom of the service stairs. The next cry sounded closer. Erik's heart sank. She was climbing the service stairs. Until then, the little girl had been safe while she remained at his doorstep. Without further thought, Erik silently hurried down the hall. He unbolted the door and opened it. He met a pair of terrified brown eyes. The child was rooted to the spot, like a trapped deer waiting for the final kill. Erik stood to one side and beckoned her. 

"Come in, child."

She stiffened, staring at the mask, and Erik was stabbed by a sharp pain. He crouched down, to be level with her eyes.

"Come, Gracie," he urged her, uttering her name for the first time. "Come in. It is safe here."

She looked inside, hesitant.

"Gracie! Where are you, you stupid brat?"

The bellowing was coming closer. The little girl darted into the apartment.

With swift movements, Erik gathered the glass and the plate, scattered the few crumbs that were on the doorstep and closed the door quietly. He turned around to face the child, who stood frozen, wide eyed, her back against the wall of the kitchen. He put a finger to his lips while the heavy steps approached the third floor.

They stared at each other while the steps got closer and went away, towards the top of the building. They stood motionless until they heard them coming down, pass in front of the door and fade away.

Only then did Erik take a deep breath, realizing he'd been holding it. The little girl mimicked his gesture, relaxing a bit, but she tensed again when he moved forward. Her eyes, once again fixed on his mask, were frightened and pleading at the same time. With graceful movements, the result of years of practice, Erik skirted her and disappeared into the kitchen, where he left the plate and the glass. When he appeared again at the kitchen door he crouched down, in an attempt to make his size less threatening. He was careful to keep a good distance between them. He smiled, trying to soothe her. He prayed the expression was not too distorted by his misshapen lips.

"My name is Erik."

She didn't utter a word.

"And you are Gracie, aren't you?"

For a long time, she stared at him and, at last, answered with the slightest nod.

"I'm pleased to meet you, Mademoiselle Gracie," Erik said in the most welcoming tone he could muster.

He bowed his head briefly and extended his hand.

She studied it, full of doubt, and he mentally slapped himself. He should know better than to offer bodily contact. She would now be repulsed, his attempts at easing the strain ruined. He bit his lower lip hard, trying not to show the bitterness that crept inside him. And then, just as he was staring at the floorboards in dismay, a small sticky hand grabbed his and gave it a squeeze. Her eyes were grave as she pumped his arm up and down, released his hand and stepped back. Erik gave her what he hoped was a radiant smile.

"Would you like to see the piano?" he asked quietly.

She frowned in confusion.

"The instrument I play? Do you want to listen to me play?"

Her nod was immediate.

"All right. Come then. It is in the dining room," he explained, as he rose to his feet avoiding any brusque movements. He skirted her again and went down the hall.

He grinned to himself as he heard the pattering of her feet behind him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's notes: **Thank you Lyd-T and Lady Golowen for the kind words! Some of Erik's traces of character are taken from the book and some from the musical and movie… I thought at the beginning that he resembled more the Phantom from the books but he turned out being a different mélange. I'm really happy to know you are enjoying the story, and hope you are pleased with the development! Roses, comments, critiques and complaints are VERY WELCOME!

* * *

Erik watched the saucepan over the furnace intently. He wondered why on earth milk had the annoying habit to warm up so slowly and then, suddenly, when one was distracted, boil and spill over the edge of the pot before one could take it off the fire. The past few afternoons Darius had come to a foul smelling apartment, reeking of burnt milk. The man had looked at Erik with suspicion. His eyes had the same expression he'd watched him with when Erik had demanded that he didn't come in the mornings, and when he had bid him to buy fruitcake and biscuits, but he hadn't made any comments and had complied exactly with Erik's demands. Praised be the proverbial tact of Persians, of which Nadir was _not_ a good example.

Erik lifted the saucepan and poured the milk into a glass. He stirred a spoonful of honey in it. Gracie loved sweet things. Erik smiled at the memory of the fascinated expression on her face the first time he had served her warm milk sweetened with honey. Would she like chocolate as well? He wondered. He would have to order Darius to buy some.

A timid rap at the service door made him look up. Perfect. His little guest had arrived just in time.

Erik went out to the hall and unbolted the door. He stood to one side, flattening himself against the wall. He knew that, despite the fact she seemed to trust him, she needed all the space he could give her to avoid feeling threatened.

"Good morning," he greeted her with what he hoped was a cheerful tone.

His voice had never really ventured into the register in which one expresses friendliness or affability. It had never had the chance to, but this time it apparently made an impression that was jovial enough, for he was graced with a bright smile.

Without further invitation, she made her way into the apartment, heading straight to the music room. Erik locked and bolted the door and retrieved the milk and pastries from the kitchen. She would be, by now, sitting on the high backed chair by the table.

The first morning she'd come into his apartment, he had invited her to sit there and by now it seemed she firmly believed that was her place. She never ventured around the music room. She never touched the piano, though she contemplated it with wonder. She never touched, in fact, anything around her. She just sat there, hands primly folded on her lap, until he came with the milk and pastries. She devoured them in the blink of an eye, and then she listened to him play. When he finished, she would stand up and head to the back door, wait until he had opened it for her and make her way down the stairs. She never thanked him, never spoke to him, but her smiles were always wide and eloquent. And the last three mornings she had waved him good-bye as she disappeared down the stairs.

Erik left the plate and glass in front of her and backed a few steps. She didn't start eating right away. She always waited until he was at a respectable distance. He sat down on the bench, his back towards the piano, and watched her gobble up everything at an astounding pace. It was as if she was afraid the food would be taken from her as soon as she had shown signs of wanting it. Erik cringed. He knew, only too well, what that fear was like. He also knew why she seemed to have such proper manners. They weren't the result of shyness or a formal upbringing. She was afraid, terrified of being punished.

He turned around and opened the piano.

"What would you like to listen to first, little one? A lullaby?"

He had been explaining to her the differences between the kinds of music he played, and though he had never received an answer to his lengthy accounts, he knew she had been paying attention and had understood them. The look in her eyes was always alert when he talked to her. He peeked over his shoulder and saw her nod.

"A lullaby it is, then."

He started playing.

Two lullabies and a polka later, he got an idea. He stopped playing and slid to the side on the bench. He turned around. Gracie was regarding him with a curious look.

"Do you want to play, Gracie?"

Her forehead furrowed.

"Come," he coaxed her, patting the bench. "Sit here. I will teach you how to play, so we can play together."

She eyed him for a moment and then she stood up. Timidly, she approached. She stopped when she was beside the bench. He nodded, beckoning her, and she perched at the very edge. One inch further, and she would tumble down. But Erik knew better than to try to draw her closer. Slowly, he lifted his right hand and played the first compasses of a short tune with his index finger.

"Now you," he indicated her.

Her little right index repeated his movements. She struck the wrong key, and winced.

"It's all right, don't worry. It is like this," he explained. "See? Play it."

She struck the keys, brow furrowed in deep concentration. She got it right this time. Erik nodded.

"Very well. Try it again."

He made her repeat it several times, before playing the next few notes. After half an hour, she had memorized the whole song. And then, he played the accompaniment while she led. He couldn't help striking some funny, dramatic chords at the end. She dissolved in giggles.

"Again?" He asked her.

She nodded vehemently.

Erik waved back with a smile as Gracie went down the stairs. He waited until she was gone before he locked the back door and bolted it. He made his way back to the music room, where he closed the cover of the piano and picked up the glass and the plate.

He would invite her to the sitting room the next day. He would show her the tuning instruments, and explain to her how they had helped him tune the piano. He would open the instrument and make her play the keys so she could see the hammers strike the chords. He would tell her about the pedals, would press them while she looked into the piano and figured out how the mechanism worked. He would take out the stack of paper and drawing instruments from his room so she could draw. He wondered whether she could read. Most probably not, she was too young for that. But he could tell her stories. Surely she would like fairy tales. He knew a heap of them from his time among the gypsies, and many more from his days in Persia. He would draw the characters for her, especially the funny ones. He could already envision some of them: the fat king, the pompous prime minister. She would also like to see the images of the fantastic ones, wouldn't she? Anything to make her giggle like she had today.


	8. Chapter 8

Erik stiffened when he heard the low thud on the service door. He lowered the book and listened carefully. Everything was quiet for a while and then there came a faint rasping sound, as if an animal was rubbing against the wood. Erik waited for a while, but nothing else came. Yet he was certain it had been Gracie.

Whatever was that child doing out of bed at this time of night? Erik put down the book and rose from the armchair. Without a sound, he made his way down the hall. He unlocked the service door and opened it a crack.

There she was, sitting on the steps that led to the fourth floor, leaning against the wall, covered in her cloak. Her eyes were closed, and Erik winced when he noticed the dry tears that streaked her cheeks.

"Gracie," he whispered.

She didn't react. He opened the door and crouched in front of her.

"Gracie," he called out again.

She opened her eyes. Her gaze was dazed and unfocused.

"What happened, child?"

She shook her head faintly, and Erik knew better than asking further. The air out in the servant's staircase was chilly, and she was shivering.

"Do you want to come in?"

She nodded. Erik stood up, and retreated towards the door. He opened it completely, and stood to the side, giving her a wide berth.

She stood up and came in. Erik watched as she hesitantly made her way to the living room. Something was definitely wrong. Her course, at best, could be described as erratic. How long had she been outdoors? Had she had something to eat? Erik went into the kitchen and made a cup of chocolate. Cup in one hand, a dish with biscuits in the other, he headed to the living room.

He found her huddled on the couch, still wrapped in her cloak. She seemed to be faring a little better. She had stopped shivering, and she looked at him when he came in.

He silently offered her the cup and carefully went around her and sat on the opposite side of the couch, putting the dish between them. He gently pushed the dish towards her, with the tip of his fingers. He watched her take the first few, careful sips, and then stop.

Suddenly, she went completely pale, doubled over and threw up on the carpet. Part of the chocolate spilled as well, before Erik caught the cup with a deft movement.

Gracie recoiled immediately, shunning from him. She curled up in a tight knot, evidently trying to avoid the blows she thought would come. Erik put the cup on the low table, slowly, and turned towards her.

"It's all right. It's all right. It wasn't your fault," he said in his kindest tone, trying to soothe her. "I'm not angry with you. Gracie, look at me."

She didn't move, her knees drawn to her chest, shoulders hunched and head ducked low. Even from a distance, Erik could feel the tension in her little body. He longed to touch her, to hold her close and comfort her, but he knew it was not to be. Instead, he tried to reach her with his voice.

"Gracie, come on, open your eyes. Look at me," he coaxed her again.

After a little while, she dared to peek over her knees. Erik smiled.

"It wasn't your fault you threw up, little one," he explained. "You are ill. Would you let me put my hand on your forehead to see if you have a fever?"

She blinked.

"I need to see if you are feverish, Gracie. I will not hurt you," he reassured her.

At last, she nodded. Erik slowly reached out to her, being careful not to lift his hand over her head until it was very close to her. Still she winced at the touch of his fingers. The contact had to be disgusting. He immediately drew his hand away.

"You don't have a fever," he informed her. "But your stomach is upset. We'll have to do something about it. Let me clean up and then I will give you something that will make you feel better."

He stood up, gathered the cup and the dish. She was still curled up on the couch when he came back with a wet rag. She was shivering again. Erik felt a burning wave of anger overtake him. Who knows what kind of rubbish had that stupid woman fed her to make her ill? He scrubbed the carpet vigorously, trying to focus his anger. It wouldn't help if Gracie felt he was mad. When he came back to the living room with another steaming cup in his hand, he crouched carefully in front of her. He called her name and she opened her eyes. They were once again clouded over.

"Are you in pain?" he asked.

She nodded.

"Does your stomach hurt?"

She shook her head. Erik left the cup on the table and forgot about the infusion immediately.

"Is it your head?"

She shook her head again.

"What is it, then? Where does it hurt?"

She didn't answer.

"I need to know what hurts, little one. Otherwise I cannot fix it," he explained to her. "Tell me where it hurts and I promise you I will make the pain go away."

Slowly, she straightened her knees and opened her cloak. She flinched when she moved her right arm to show him. Erik heard his own hiss as he drew in a sharp breath. Her right forearm was bent in an absurd angle. The stupid cow had broken the child's arm! How had she _dared_?

Gracie's enormous eyes looked at him in panic and she retreated a little further against the back of the couch. Erik bit his lip. He had frightened her.

"It's all right, Gracie," he reassured her after a moment. "I'm not angry with you. I'm angry with the one that hurt you. Was it your mama?"

She didn't give him an answer, but he didn't need one.

"Your arm is broken, that's why it hurts so much," he continued. "I will make it better."

His words didn't seem to calm her, so he continued.

"I will draw away the pain, little one. Trust me, Gracie. Do you trust me?"

A single nod. Erik smiled.

"All right. I will have to make you go to sleep, so I can set the bones. But you need not fear. I'll be right back."

Erik stood up again and went to his room. He opened the medicine cabinet and stopped, bottle in hand. How would he make her go to sleep without making her panic? A handkerchief held tightly over one's mouth and nose was everything _but_ reassuring. He went back to the living room, still pondering the matter. Better to explain everything to her. She would sense the sincerity in his words and he hoped, prayed actually, her trust was strong enough not to fight him.

"This medicine will put you to sleep," he said as he showed her the bottle. "It is not something you drink, but something you inhale. I will put some of it in my handkerchief," he continued as he did what he said, "And then you'll take it and put it over your nose, like this."

He showed her, being careful not to breathe in, and then offered her the handkerchief. She took it and did as he said.

"Now we will take in some deep breaths together, like this."

He breathed in, held his breath and released it through his mouth. She imitated him. At the third breath, her eyes were already closing. He caught her little body as it slid to one side and laid her on the couch. He waited for a minute until he was sure she was deeply drugged, and then reached for her right arm. He sensed it carefully. Luckily, it was a simple fracture, and it didn't seem to have happened long ago. The arm was not swollen. Erik looked around for something to splint it with.

A moment later, he'd set the bones and bandaged the arm. He looked at Gracie's face. Her features were peaceful, as if she was sleeping in her own bed, just as any other child her age at this late hour. She was so delicate, so beautiful. How could anyone harm her? That people had beaten him even when he was a child was, in a way, understandable. But such a pretty girl, such a perfect creature. . .

It would not happen again, vowed Erik. It would _never_ happen again.

Tenderly, because he knew she was unconscious, he allowed himself to caress her cheek with the back of his fingers.


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's notes: **I had promised myself I wouldn't beg for reviews... To hell with that promise. Review, pleeeease!

* * *

Nadir had been dozing by the fire when he jumped at the pounding on the main door. Whoever it was seemed determined to throw the door down. Nadir retrieved his gun from a drawer in his desk, as he heard Darius open. He made sure the gun was loaded while he heard the heated argument in the foyer. Then the door of the sitting room burst open, and in came Erik, long dark cloak, fedora and all.

"I need a new apartment, Daroga," he stated.

Nadir gaped at him, as he noticed Erik seemed to have developed an enormous belly. Before he could possibly start to comprehend the nature of the weird swelling in the middle of Erik's body, his friend hobbled towards the couch, opened his cloak and lowered a girl onto it. With a slightly jarred movement, he swung his cloak off. He covered the child, tucking her in the soft fabric, but not before Nadir caught eye of the splinted arm.

"Who is. . ."

"The concierge's daughter," answered Erik before Nadir even managed to finish his question.

"What did you. . ."

"What did I do to her, you mean?" Erik burst. "Why would I have _done_ something to her? Do you think I've become a child molester, Daroga?"

Erik's fierce eyes locked on his. There was wildness in them, a savage wrath Nadir hadn't seen in a long time. Still, Nadir also noticed that Erik leant heavily on his left leg, that his forehead was covered in sweat and that his hands were trembling. Nadir didn't flinch, didn't draw back. He corrected his question, instead:

"_Why_ did you bring her here, Erik?"

"I. Need. A new. Apartment," repeated Erik, stressing every word. "I'll be damned if I let her go back to her _loving_ mother."

Nadir frowned.

"You took her away from her mother? Erik. . ."

"Yes!" hissed Erik. "I took her away from the mother that has beaten her almost every day since I started living there. From the one that broke her arm. Don't _dare_ judge me, Daroga."

The violence of Erik's tone was such that Nadir was sure he would have been screaming at the top of his lungs if the sleeping child hadn't been in the same room as they were. Still, Nadir couldn't agree to something that evidently bordered on kidnapping.

"But. . ."

A slight rustle coming from the couch startled them both. They turned around to see the child had opened her eyes and was making a feeble attempt at sitting up. Immediately, Erik was by her side, squatting down to be at the same level with her eyes. He retrieved a cushion from the opposite side of the couch and stuffed it behind her back to support her. The child sagged on the pillow, her bewildered gaze fixed on Erik.

"How are you little one?" asked Erik and Nadir was astounded.

The voice that a moment before had spoken in repressed fury was now infinitely tender.

The child didn't answer, and Nadir couldn't gauge whether she was afraid of Erik or simply startled by her new surroundings.

"Are you in pain?"

Still the same gentle tone. Nadir had never heard Erik speak to anyone in that manner, except. . . Well, better not to dwell on that memory. It had been an unfortunate evening.

The child nodded and licked her dry lips.

"Are you thirsty?"

The child nodded again. Erik turned partly around.

"Nadir, would you please. . ."

Since when had Erik started using polite formulae to ask him for something? Nadir wondered. Erik lifted his gaze, and Nadir was startled at the change in his demeanour. All trace of anger was wiped from his eyes. Instead, they were matted by pain.

"Darius," Nadir ordered quietly.

Darius, who'd been watching by the doorway, bowed and disappeared. Erik turned around to face the child again and Nadir stepped back, as quietly as he could. He should not interfere. If his presence went unnoticed, it would be easier to esteem whether the child trusted Erik or whether she feared him. He suddenly realized he was still holding his gun and, as noiselessly as he could, retreated towards his desk and put it away. He leant against the desk and watched.

Erik was talking to the child. He was showing her a small phial he had taken out of his waistcoat pocket.

". . . The water, I'll put some drops of this in it, and it will draw the pain away."

The child was looking at him trustingly, but as soon as Erik's explanation finished, her eyes darted around the room. She retreated against the cushion, apparently afraid. Immediately, Erik's voice rose again, in a soothing tone.

"This room does look strange, doesn't it," he said warmly. "It is because it is the home of my good friend, Monsieur Kahn," Erik continued, waving at the Persian.

Nadir smiled when the child's eyes fell on him. But the little girl frowned.

"Step closer, Nadir. She can't see you if you stand in the shadows."

Nadir gave a few steps forward and smiled again, for the child's sake. She studied him.

In came Darius with a tray bearing a glass of water. He set it on the table beside the couch.

"And this is Darius," continued Erik. "He's Nadir's manservant. And here's the water. Drink."

He handed her the glass, and the child drank eagerly. Halfway through it, Erik made her stop.

"Now," he continued, taking the glass from her. "We will put some of this in the water. . ."

He uncapped the phial and let ten drops fall in the water.

"And you may drink it. It'll ease your pain and will help you sleep, Gracie. When you wake up tomorrow, your arm won't hurt anymore."

The child took the glass from Erik's hand and, without a moment's hesitation, drank its contents. Nadir was stunned at the ease with which Erik spoke to the child, and the tranquillity with which she accepted his presence and his care.

A minute later, the child's head bobbed, and her eyes slid shut. Erik rose to his feet and gathered her in his arms. He left the room without a word and Nadir followed. Erik entered the guest room where he'd spent his illness. He supported the child with his right arm as he swung the covers of the bed to one side with a low grunt of pain. He lowered the child, took his cloak away, undid the laces of her cloak and turned her on the side to retrieve the cloth from underneath her body. He laid the small garment at the feet of the bed and knelt down. Nadir's eyes widened. He blatantly gawked as Erik undid the laces of the child's boots and carefully removed them from her feet. He covered her with the blankets and tucked her in. He turned towards Nadir.

"We could perhaps discuss the matter now," he hissed. "That is, if you're done gaping, Daroga."

Nadir turned around and led the way to the sitting room.

As soon as they came in, Erik collapsed onto the couch. Nadir closed the door to the foyer and decided to give Erik a short reprieve. The child had been abducted. At this time, the mother should have already noticed her absence. Perhaps she had even related Erik to the disappearance of her child. The girl would have to be restored to her mother, the scandal would have to be quelled, the inquiries from the police avoided. He didn't want to start thinking about _how_ he would manage to do all of that. In any way, Erik was right on something: he needed a new apartment.

Nadir crossed the sitting room and served two glasses of cognac. He silently handed one to Erik and brought the decanter to the low table. He sat on the armchair.

"I guess you want me to tell you what happened, Daroga, don't you?" Erik sighed, after they had had the first sip.

"That would be most helpful, my friend."

Erik closed his eyes. For a moment, he didn't say anything. He seemed utterly exhausted. When he started speaking, his voice was weary, devoid of any emotion.

After Erik finished his tale, Nadir sat motionless for an instant. He realized he had drunk his third cognac when he lifted the glass to his lips and found it empty. He unstoppered the decanter and tilted the bottle in Erik's direction. Erik handed him the glass and Nadir refilled it. He served himself a generous portion and had a long sip. His mind was whirling.

He didn't doubt a word Erik had said. He hadn't seen, in the girl, any signs of fear or mistrust. And yet. . . And yet Erik had been obsessed by the need to care for another human being not so long ago. His obsession had even bordered the realm in which one is unable to distinguish one's desires from reality, in which one's mind bends the facts to turn them into one's wishes. Nadir hadn't noticed it on time then. He hadn't been able to stop the disastrous course of events that had led to the destruction of Erik's home and his near death. And now he didn't want to see history repeat itself.

But what if Erik wasn't obsessed this time? The child had a broken arm, and Nadir knew Erik couldn't possibly have harmed her. What if the mother did abuse the child? Should he return the child, then? What would happen to her if he did? And how would Erik react if Nadir insisted on returning the child to her mother?

Nadir finished the contents of his glass in one go and observed the remnants of the liquor cling to the sides. After casting a glance at the motionless form of his friend, he made his decision.

"Let's get you into bed," he said. "We'll draw a course of action in the morning."

He stood up, and gestured towards Erik, who opened his eyes and gazed at him dazedly.

"I can sleep on the couch," Erik protested.

"Nonsense," Nadir countered. "You're my guest. Come now."

He took Erik's forearm and gently helped him to his feet. He thanked Allah Erik was too exhausted to voice further protests. He guided Erik to his own room and fussed around drawing the curtains and opening the bedcovers until he'd made sure Erik would take up his offer and lie down in his bed. He then lowered the light on the lamp on the night table and went out of the room.


	10. Chapter 10

Early the next morning, after checking his guests were still asleep, Nadir sent Darius to recognize the field in Erik's building. He fiddled a little in the sitting room, trying not to make any noise, most for Erik's than the girl's sake, and wished Darius would come back before any of his guests woke up. Half an hour later, his prayers were answered. Darius came back and they retreated to the kitchen to conference.

The description that Darius made of the interior of the porter's lodge, filthy and filled with empty bottles; the picture he drew of the man who accompanied the concierge, a bearded, menacing man, as well as the unconcerned attitude with which the woman had referred to the disappearance of her daughter, soon convinced Nadir of the course of action to be taken. Now, how would he ever accomplish to carry that course of action to a successful result _that_ was another kettle of fish.

A muffled cough coming from the sitting room nearly made them both jump out of their skins. Nadir darted out of the kitchen to find Erik stiffly sitting down on the armchair.

"I would like to listen to the conclusions you've come to, my friend," he said, his voice slightly tinged with sarcasm. "That is, if you've finished your conclave with Darius."

Erik's words astounded Nadir. This was a surprising new version of Erik. The old one would have burst into the kitchen in a fit of rage as soon as he had noticed they were discussing him behind his back. Suddenly, the idea that Erik had, willingly, placed himself in Nadir's hands by coming to his apartment, struck Nadir. The man who'd always strived to hold absolute control of his life had decided to relinquish that control to other person. Erik had changed, indeed. Nadir sighed.

"I think you are right, Erik. You need a new apartment. Perhaps we can discuss it over breakfast?" He suggested.

With an enormous relief, he watched Erik's head bow in a single, curt nod.

* * *

"So, Daroga, have you come up with a plan already?" Erik asked when they were having their second cup of tea.

Nadir watched him gravely from under his furrowed eyebrows for such a long time that Erik wondered whether he was overstaying his welcome. Maybe it was time to take his destiny into his own hands again, and let Nadir be. Not that the Persian had ever let _him_ be, but perhaps the Daroga had grown weary of being Erik's self-appointed conscience.

"I must ask you, my friend, whether you intend to keep the girl."

Nadir's words startled him. However, it took Erik but an eyewink to answer.

"Of course I intend to keep her. I didn't save her from her mother to throw her into the gutter."

"Then I would like to know under which conditions you intend to keep her."

Erik's heart sank. How could the Daroga, of all people, make such a question?

"_Conditions_? What do you mean by conditions? _What_ are you implying, Daroga? Do you think so little of me?"

Nadir raised his hands, in an appeasing gesture. He had formulated the question in the wrong terms. Damn French language.

"What I mean is how you intend to provide for her needs. She will need to be tutored."

"I can teach her everything she needs to know," Erik snapped.

"She'll need dresses and toys and. . ."

"You know better the state of my funds than myself, Daroga. But I'm sure I'm still wealthy enough to provide for her."

"She'll have to be raised in the religion of her country."

"I can do without God. She can do without him as well," now, Erik's voice was sharp.

"And yet. . ."

Erik rubbed his face in exasperation. His fingers bumped against the mask, and then he fully understood. Of course the Daroga, like anyone else, would disapprove of his will to keep the girl. Nobody would ever believe him worthy of. . . He stood up. Suddenly, the dining room had turned into a narrow, menacing cage.

"Of course," he ranted. "I'm not even entitled to that. A _monster_ must not be allowed to raise a little girl. God only knows in which ways I would. . . pervert her."

His voice was hoarse. He couldn't breathe. With trembling fingers, he undid the knot of his tie and loosened it. He heard the Daroga's voice. It was too far away to understand what he was saying. There was simply no air. . .

Erik strode towards the window and shoved the curtains to one side. The long draperies got entangled on his forearm and he tried to free himself with a violent move. A hand grasped his shoulder. Instinctively, Erik turned around and hit back.

Nadir tumbled backwards and fell to the floor, a hand shooting up to his cheek, where Erik had slapped him. They both froze for a second.

Nadir was the first one to react. He put his hand on the seat of the chair beside him and struggled to his feet. He turned around to face Erik, who was still standing, frozen, by the window.

"I pray your forgiveness, my friend. I was not trying to question your motives or your abilities to raise the child," Nadir's voice was steady but soothing.

Erik didn't react. The left side of his face was as white as the porcelain mask covering the right, and his eyes were wide.

"Please, Erik," repeated Nadir, for it was clear Erik had not understood his words. "Forgive me. I was not questioning your attachment to the child."

Still no answer. Nadir tried once again:

"Erik, I'm so sorry."

He stepped back, giving Erik some space, and waved towards the chair Erik had occupied.

"Please, be seated, so we can clear up this terrible misunderstanding."

He met Erik's eyes evenly, and he prayed Erik would see the honesty with which he offered his apologies. He had started this conversation with the wrong foot and every word he'd uttered since he started talking had just made things worse.

Erik appeared to weigh Nadir's words carefully, and then he stepped closer to the chair. With wary movements, he sat down. Nadir was dismayed to notice Erik had retreated behind the thick walls of mistrust that usually protected him from the outer world.

Nadir took a deep breath, trying to weigh his words carefully.

"I never tried to question the sincerity of your affects, my friend. Nor their honesty. I simply. . ."

Erik's head shot up in attention. A second later, he sprang to his feet and darted out of the room and into the guest chamber. The child had, evidently, woken up.

Nadir called Darius and asked him to go and find out what she would like to have for breakfast, and to serve it to her in the room. Now he would probably have some time to think about the best way to make his apologies, and ensure Erik he would help him. He would maybe have a little time to devise a plan to effectively remove him and the little girl from their former lodgings.


	11. Chapter 11

As things turned out, Nadir had plenty of time to ponder both matters. Erik stayed by the girl's bedside, distracting her from her pains the rest of the morning and the whole afternoon. He told her stories about Persia, played small tricks of magic for her and plundered Nadir's stock of writing paper so she could draw pictures, which he then pinned on the wall, above the bed, so she would have something familiar to look at. He sent Darius to buy a nightgown and a dress, and made sure she was comfortable enough, requisitioning all the pillows and cushions in the apartment. Early in the evening, when Gracie fell asleep, he finally emerged from the guest room.

Nadir watched him come down the hall, stop at the entrance of the sitting room and measure him with scathing eyes.

"Please, Erik," Nadir begged, regretting every word he'd uttered that morning. "Sit down. Let's talk about this."

After a heartbeat in which Erik cast a glance down the hall, he joined Nadir in the sitting room. Nadir noticed he had chosen the couch instead of the armchair, which would have given him a narrower perspective of the room, and would have forced him to sit with his back to the entrance. He tried not to sigh. Every one of Erik's instincts of self preservation was now on edge, triggered by Nadir's careless attitude that morning. He wondered whether he'd be able to regain the confidence of his friend. He decided he wouldn't apologize any more. Too many words of excuse and explanation would only increase Erik's misgivings. Instead, Nadir chose to explain his plan to Erik right away.

Erik weighed Nadir's words carefully, while he kept a vigilant eye on the hall, part of his attention still on the room where Gracie slept. The familiar, comfortable apartment was no longer a safe retreat but a court in which his actions were judged and his motives condemned, and Erik was still fighting the impulse to run away. He had been fighting it the whole day, for Gracie's sake.

He knew he could escape from Nadir's apartment and build a new life for himself without any money and without the help of anyone. It would be difficult at first, but he would find a way. He had got out of even tougher situations in the past. But it would entail a great deal of hardship at first, and he couldn't expose Gracie to more hunger or need. She needed a safe, warm place. She needed a home, and he would be damned if he denied her that.

He didn't like the course of action the Persian had drawn. It was too convoluted, too complicated and it would take a long time to carry out. Too many things could go wrong. Worst of all, it entailed him being separated from Gracie for, at least, a week. In that week the Daroga could arrange for her to be sent away, to an orphanage or to another home, one Nadir thought more appropriate for a small child.

Without mentioning his troubles, Erik opposed every objection he could think of to Nadir's plan, but the Persian found a solution to each of them. Erik argued further, going back to previous points, trying to exasperate Nadir. A furious man tended to speak his mind outright. But the Daroga seemed determined to hold to his patience and to use reason to convince Erik of the need to stick to his scheme.

"It would be much easier to travel out of Paris tonight," Erik insisted for the thousandth time.

Nadir closed his eyes for an instant. He knew Erik's objections had been raised because of Erik's lack of trust in him and not because the scheme was flawed. But his friend had not voiced his concerns in their long talk. He hadn't even hinted at what those concerns were, so Nadir hadn't been able to reassure him that they were unfounded, and Nadir was _not _going back to apologising. He twisted the tip of his moustache, and then he found the answer he needed. Maybe reminding Erik of his sustained loyalty would take them out of the vicious circle they had been treading for the past hour.

"It would be. But the apartment has been rented in my name. It won't take a very intelligent chief of police to connect the disappearance of the child with the disappearance of the tenant on the third floor. And I have no desire to reside in a French prison, my friend. In fact, I have no desire to look inside a prison again."

Nadir watched Erik as his words sunk in. Praised be his mother tongue to which he had resorted to at the beginning of the discussion. He wouldn't have been able to allude with any measure of tact to the time he'd spent in jail in a foreign language.

"But I'm still at risk to have a look at the inside of a prison myself," noted Erik wryly.

Nadir lifted his eyebrows. Erik was as incapable of being tactful in Farsi as he was in French.

"Do you really believe me capable of turning you in?"

Nadir watched Erik evenly. They engaged in a staring contest for a few minutes and, at last, Erik answered, still sustaining Nadir's gaze.

"No, I don't think you would. But. . ." Erik faltered, and his eyes darted away.

That was the opening Nadir had been waiting for such a long time, and he seized it.

"But what?"

Erik rubbed his left eye, annoyed at himself. He was tired, and he had made the mistake of steering the conversation precisely into the topic he had wanted to avoid. Oh hell. Better to address the matter directly, then.

"But I think you still consider the child will be better off someplace else. You'll send her away as soon as I turn my back on you."

"I would never do that," whispered Nadir. And then in a firmer tone: "I will swear it, Erik, if that's the only way you'll believe me. I swear to Allah I will not take the child from you."

Erik smiled, scornfully.

"That's an oath taken in front of an infidel, Daroga. Does it count?"

That sent Nadir over the edge. He glared at Erik for a second, and then he burst:

"You distrustful, stubborn fool!" he exclaimed, striding towards the foyer. "Darius! Darius!"

"For heaven's sake, Daroga!" cried Erik behind him. "You'll wake her!"

He stood up and was about to make his way to the guest chamber when Nadir's hand shot up and grabbed his left shoulder. Nadir's hand landed precisely on Erik's healing wound, and the pressure made Erik flinch with pain. It was startling enough to stop Erik who would have, in other circumstances, pushed away the shorter and weaker man.

"Oh no. You stay here. If you make me swear upon Allah's name, you'll be here to listen to me take my oath in front of witnesses."

Erik stared down at Nadir's raging features. He had never seen the even-tempered Persian so out of himself.

Darius had rushed down the hall by then and stood, startled, in the foyer.

"Darius, bear witness of this," said Nadir, still grasping Erik's shoulder. "I swear, on the name of Allah, that I will not separate Erik from the child that's sleeping in the guest bedroom."

His gaze landed on his manservant.

"Do you bear witness?"

"Yes, my lord," answered Darius.

Nadir pinned Erik with his gaze.

"Are you now satisfied?"

"Yes," answered Erik while he pried Nadir's fingers from his shoulder. "Perhaps you could stop pressing my wound now? I am quite sure the bleeding stopped some time ago."

Nadir released him. They regarded each other until Erik broke the contact.

"I'll see to her. You must have scared her out of her wits with your screaming."

He went down the hall, and into the guest room. Nadir, his angry outburst having come to an end, followed suit. He stood by the door.

Erik had lighted the lamp on the bedside table and was kneeling down beside the child. She had curled up in the bed, the covers covering her completely, as if she was trying to hide. Nadir felt a twist of regret.

"Gracie, Gracie," called Erik.

It took him some time to get the child to lower the covers and look at him. She was truly terrified.

"It's all right, Gracie. Did we wake you up?"

She nodded.

"I'm sorry we did. We forgot how loudly we were speaking. But you must not fear. Everything's all right," explained Erik quietly. "You are safe here. Nobody is going to harm you. Gracie, look at me. Do you believe me?"

The child nodded and Erik smiled.

"Good girl. . ."

He paused, drew in a deep breath and apparently made up his mind.

"You will stay here, in Monsieur Kahn's home, for some time. He and Darius will look after you. I must be away for a while..."

At that, the child stared at him in panic. Erik smiled again. His hand reached out for her, but his fingers didn't quite touch her, just hovered over her shoulder for an instant, and drew away.

"They will take good care of you," he continued. "And before long, I will come back. I will look for another apartment with a piano, so we can play again. Would you like that, Gracie? To live in a big apartment?"

She didn't answer him for a moment, but, at last, she nodded.

"All right. I will go and look for one, then, and will come back when I have found it, so you'll never have to live with your mama again. Is that what you want?"

Erik held his breath, waiting for the answer, and released it when she nodded.

"So you'll be a good child and obey Monsieur Kahn and Darius until I come back?"

Another nod.

"Go back to sleep, then."

Erik reached out to lower the light on the lamp, but then a small hand grabbed his. Gracie's grave eyes were set on him.

"I wasn't going to turn it off," he explained. "Just to lower the light a bit, Gracie."

Still, she wouldn't let go. Her little fingers were warm against his skin, her palm slightly sweaty. Erik looked at her hand for a long moment, relishing the touch.

"Do you want me to keep you company until you fall asleep?"

She nodded again, and he sat on the floor. Carefully, he wrapped his fingers around hers. Her small hand disappeared within his. Gracie closed her eyes. Erik waited. He heard the floorboards on the hall creak as Nadir retreated to the sitting room, and he heard Gracie's breaths become deeper and more even as she rendered to sleep. After some time and much inner debate, he pulled himself from her side, and made his way back to the sitting room wearily.


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's notes: **Thank you all for your kind reviews... I hadn't noticed that I still had enabled the blockage for anonymous reviews. That blockage is down now, so everybody can drop a few words! (And thanks Mereidia for pointing it out!).

* * *

Nadir stretched his back while he and Darius walked down the slope of the cemetery. He was exhausted. The whole week had been a trial, but going through those two final days had been an overwhelming task.

First had come the sleepless night, the fake vigil by a dying man. Then there had come the calling of the doctor, the long talk that led to the payment of a false death certificate. It was followed by the commission of the coffin and by the endless discussion with the funeral director so that he would let Nadir take the measurements of the corpse, and so that the employees of the undertaker's would not take care of the body, but only delivered the coffin and came back the next day with the hearse to take the corpse to the cemetery.

And then he and Darius had helped to carry the coffin, and had braved another discussion because the lid had not been nailed. And then there had come the endless journey to the cemetery through streets that were practically deserted due to the early hour, but that seemed crowded to him. And the tension when he and Darius tried lifting the casket in the cemetery, to avoid the employees noticing the difference in weight, the moment in which earth had seemed to stand still before they grasped the handles of the coffin and took it out of the hearse and effectively confirmed that it was much lighter, that Erik had managed to get out of the carriage unnoticed.

Finally, there had come the memorial service. The prayers for the dead had been interminable, the soft thud of the earth falling on the coffin separated by infinite gaps. He and Darius had stood beside the grave after the gravediggers had left, and then they had gone back to their cab to pick up Erik at the meeting point they had agreed the day before.

The anguish which had weighed over Nadir's heart seized him again when their cab stopped briefly at the entrance of the narrow alley. Darius opened the door of the carriage and was about to climb down when a dark figure appeared behind a stack of barrels and darted into the cab. Nadir couldn't help a satisfied grin as he tapped the roof to signal de driver they should continue.

"Stop that, Nadir. You look like the Cheshire cat," Erik complained.

"The what?"

Erik leant back against the cushions and closed his eyes.

"The Cheshire cat. It's a character from a book."

"And how exactly do I resemble it?"

Erik sighed.

"Your grin."

"My grin?" Nadir was lost again. "A cat that grins?"

Erik waved a hand in dismissal.

"It's a _children's _book, Nadir. Written by a mad Englishman."

Nadir's eyebrows darted upwards. And after a beat he said:

"Well, perhaps you should read it to Gracie. Maybe she'll be able to see the resemblance."

At that, Erik's eyes burst open, and his back straightened like a rod. A second later he looked away, out of the window, trying to cover his first reaction, but Nadir noticed the way his fists had clenched tight with anticipation, and cringed inwardly. By Allah, it would be a hard task to win Erik's trust again.

"Yes, perhaps I should read it to her," said Erik distractedly.

Nadir pinched his nose with his fingers, and then traced the contour of his thick eyebrows to relieve the tension on his forehead. He was at the brink of a terrible headache. And yet, as he thought about everything that had happened during the past week, he smiled.

They had succeeded in faking a natural death that would prevent anyone from relating the disappearance of the child to the vacating of the apartment on the third floor, a death that would also ensure Nadir's good name and would let him, in due time, rent a new apartment in another part of the city for his invalid brother and his little niece. Nadir drew a smile at that last thought, but Erik had no time to comment on it for the cab stopped in front of the building at the Rue de Rivoli.

Erik climbed the steps two by two. He had to wait on the landing until Nadir got to their floor, produced the key out of his pocket and, with an unnerving slowness, opened the front door. He managed to fake some measure of unconcern, however, and he let Nadir step first into the apartment.

He had just come into the foyer and Darius had barely closed the door behind them when a little figure burst out from the guest room, darted towards him and clung to his legs. Gracie buried her face by Erik's hip, while three astonished men watched her.

Erik was unable to speak, to move, stunned by the wave of emotion that washed over him. At last, he laid his hand over her head and caressed her curls. And then he gently pried Gracie's arm away, so he could crouch in front of her.

"Hello, little one," he whispered.

Gracie cast herself against him, wrapped her good arm around his neck and buried her face by his collarbone.

Erik was shocked still once again. She had just. . . Hugged him. _Him_, of all people, and not once, but twice. It was shocking. It was inconceivable. It was. . . It was a miracle. Holding back tears, he let his arms surround her. Then he lifted her from the ground.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," he murmured, and made his way into the sitting room. He sat on the couch, the child on his lap.

Nadir cleared his throat, and after a while, his hands found the buttons of his coat. He took it off, and hung it on the clothes rack by the front door. He turned around, and only then Darius seemed to come out of whatever reverie he'd been immersed into. He cleared his throat.

"I. . . I will prepare lunch, my lord. If that is all right with you."

Nadir stared at him. Darius, an extremely laconic man, hardly ever put more than two words together. Two sentences were an odd event.

"Well, certainly, Darius. I will. . . I think I will lie down for a while in my room."

* * *


	13. Chapter 13

Nadir had to slow his pace at the last flight of stairs. Truly, five floors were becoming too many for his old bones. When he came to the last landing, he leant on his cane and waited until he had regained his breath before knocking at the door. The last thing he needed now was Erik reminding him that he had been the one to choose and rent that particular apartment. The door opened, and Nadir met a pair of enormous brown eyes.

"Good afternoon, Gracie," he said laying a hand on top the child's head as he came into the foyer. He closed the door behind him.

Gracie's hair had been brushed back and tied with a blue ribbon Nadir had not seen before.

"That's a beautiful ribbon you've got there."

Gracie smiled.

"Papa bought it for me," she said.

"Did he?" asked Nadir, amused.

She nodded, and he silently regarded the ribbon. He was certainly not going to comment on Erik's shopping methods. At first, when he was still somewhat weak, Erik had relied entirely on Darius to buy whatever he needed. He still recurred to Darius help when it was a matter of getting food or larger items which needed to be ordered specially, but he had soon turned back into his old habits of late time lock-picking and money-leaving in the shops he fancied. It worried Nadir that Erik left Gracie alone for these excursions, and the possibility that Erik got shot or caught by the police worried him even more, but he had promised himself he would never again meddle in Erik's affairs unless he was first invited to do so. And he had kept his promise.

Suddenly, he realized that the pair of brown eyes were pinning him with an expectant stare.

"Hm. . . I think I might have forgotten something. . ."

He watched her expression fall, and he couldn't stand it.

"Unless it is in my left pocket, let me see," he added with a wink, and chuckled when the expectant gaze came back to her eyes.

Nadir rummaged a little in his pocket to enhance the suspense and at last produced a small paper bag tied with a string.

"Here it is!" He announced as he delivered the bag into eager hands.

Little fingers immediately started fighting against the knot.

"What do you say to that, Gracie?" A melodious voice asked.

Nadir lifted his eyes. Erik was standing by the door to the sitting room.

"Thank you, Uncle Nadir," piped Gracie, still concentrated on the knot.

"I don't know why she should thank you, anyway," grumbled Erik in Farsi. "You'll ruin her teeth with all that candy."

He made a pause.

"Do you want to come in?" He asked in French, this time.

Nadir had to smile at Erik's alternation of language. Before Gracie, they had usually carried out their conversations in whatever language they happened to start with. But now they resorted to Farsi whenever they discussed things they deemed unfit for the child's ears. It meant that most of Erik's scathing remarks were made in Farsi nowadays.

Nadir shook his head.

"I think we must be going," he said. "So we can make the most of the afternoon."

Gracie gave him a wide, albeit lopsided smile at that, since she was now sucking an enormous piece of candy that bulged one of her cheeks.

"All right," Erik convened.

He crossed the foyer and took down Gracie's cloak from the clothes rack. He put the cloak over the child's shoulders and crouched in front of her to tie the lace. He pointed at the bag.

"Put that in your pocket," he instructed.

Gracie did as she was told, and then kissed Erik's exposed cheek.

"Good bye, Papa."

Erik kissed her in turn.

"Good bye, love. Have a good time."

He stood up.

"Stop gawking, Daroga. And don't feed her more candy. They also sell apples and such at amusement park stands, you know."

Nadir cleared his throat and looked away. It still surprised him how natural it was for Erik to mother Gracie, but it was always embarrassing when Erik caught him staring.

"I won't," he promised, as he offered his hand to the child.

Erik opened the door for them and stood by the threshold.

"And no freak shows," he said. "She's got enough of those at home."

He couldn't help chuckling as he saw Nadir wince, stop on the first step and stare at him in shock. Erik waved at him dismissively.

"I'm teasing, Daroga. Where's your sense of humour?"

It took Nadir more than a few seconds to react. Gracie was already pulling at his hand and Erik had almost closed the door before he went down the next step.

The cab ride was short, and before Nadir could stop wondering at the enormous change that had made possible for Erik to joke about one of the darkest periods of his life, they were already on the grounds of the amusement park. They descended from the cab and Nadir took in their surroundings.

"So, Gracie, what would you like to try first?" He asked.

Gracie had been speaking to Nadir for some months now, but she always needed some encouragement to start a conversation.

"The merry-go-round?" she asked.

Nadir felt a twist inside when he heard her timorousness. Despite the months in which Erik's gentle, patient probing had led the child first to speak to him and then to Nadir and Darius, despite the kindness that all three shed over her, despite the fact that none of them had ever addressed her with harsh words, the child was still uncertain when it came to voicing her wishes.

"The merry-go-round it is, then," stated Nadir cheerfully.

He made out the high, cone-like roof of the carrousel among the lower tents and led Gracie to it.

He had been standing by the merry-go-round and waving periodically for about a century when he noticed a strange pallor on Gracie's face. Instead of asking her if she wanted another ride when the carousel stopped, he beckoned her to him. Seven rides must be, after all, enough for a seven year old.

"Come, Gracie. Let's sit down for a bit. Do you want something to drink?"

She nodded wearily and grasped his hand. He bought lemonade for her in one of the open cafés. They sat at a table and Nadir rested his feet while Gracie sipped her lemonade.

Afterwards, it was time for the pavilion of fun, where Nadir stoically bore to be put in ridicule, alternatively looking like a teapot, his head incredibly small and sporting a huge belly, or a lollypop, with a huge head and thin and long legs. Gracie was fascinated by the mirrors. Nadir made a mental note to comment that to Erik, so he could explain to her how the mirrors distorted the images.

Then they spent quite some time buying tickets for the wheel of fortune. Gracie's eyes were irresistibly drawn to one of the dolls on display, but although Nadir spent more than the cost of the doll, they didn't win it. To cheer Gracie up, Nadir decided they could venture a trip into the maze of mirrors. When they finally came out of it, he asked her whether she would like to listen to some music. The band was just going to start playing. She nodded, and they made their way to one of the numerous benches placed in front of the scene where the musicians were getting ready.

Gracie started getting bored. To distract her, Nadir told her that her papa had once built a maze of mirrors like the one they had been into, for the Shah-in-Shah of Persia, in a huge palace filled with many riches. He told her that her papa had been a renowned architect. Ten master builders and hundreds of masons had worked under his command. Gracie watched him, wide eyed, while he told her snippets of Erik's work in Persia, but when he noticed that most of the people around them were also following his words closely, he cut his tale short. Instead, he pointed at the instruments of the band and asked Gracie their names. He was surprised to learn that she knew most of them. Nadir knew Erik had taught her that. One of the first books he had ordered Darius to buy was a music dictionary with all kinds of pictures. However, it was remarkable for a child of seven to remember all those names.

That distraction was also short lived. Soon they were silent again, and Gracie was sighing and fidgeting on the bench. Finally, she tugged the sleeve of his coat.

"Yes, Gracie?"

"Uncle Nadir may I. . ." she faltered, and he nodded, encouraging her to continue. "May I have a look at those pictures?"

She was pointing at a board standing in front of a closed tent, not twenty yards away. Colourful letters advertised whatever would be displayed in the tent, but Nadir's eyes were not so keen anymore, and he couldn't read the sign.

"All right. But come back when the music starts."

She trotted away, and he saw her stop in front of the board, crane her neck to look at the pictures on the top. He glanced at the stage, noticing most of the musicians were already seated. The lady beside him asked him what time it was and Nadir took out his watch. It was almost five o'clock. The afternoon had flown by. Nadir cast a look at Gracie, who was still standing in front of the board. People started clapping and Nadir noticed the director was onstage.

"Gracie!" he called, but she didn't hear him, eyes glued to the pictures.

The band started playing. Gracie didn't leave her spot. His curiosity piqued, Nadir abandoned the bench. He approached her. His blood ran cold when he read the sign:

"Monsters and Rarities of the Human Race."

Merciful Allah. The first picture he saw was that of a very fat woman sporting a beard worthy of an imam. But Gracie wasn't looking at it, nor at the one of the smallest man on earth, nor at the Siamese twins. Her eyes were set upon a picture of a man within a cage. The man's head was very big. Large bumps covered his forehead and cheeks. He was advertised as "The New Elephant Man".

Nadir placed a hand on Gracie's shoulder, gently.

"Come, Gracie," he told her, hoping his voice wouldn't fail him. "Come with me."

She looked up at him with troubled eyes.

"The music has begun," Nadir explained.

She blinked, and two tears slid down her cheeks. Nadir opened his arms.

"Come, now."

She clung to him desperately, and he lifted her from the ground, shushing and emitting soft sounds to calm her. He rubbed her back while she sobbed against his shoulder.

"Do you want me to take you home, Gracie?" he asked, when she had quieted down a bit.

She nodded, her arms around his neck, embracing him as she had embraced Erik the day he had come back to the apartment at the Rue de Rivoli after faking his own death.

"Let's go home, then."

Nadir carefully backed away from the board, not turning around. The last thing he wanted now was Gracie peeking over his shoulder at those awful pictures. When he was at a considerable distance, he turned around and walked off the grounds of the amusement park.

He stopped a cab and climbed in after her. He held her hand during the ride and helped her out of it. They came to the front door, but instead of knocking, Nadir crouched in front of her and took both of her hands in his.

"I want you to make me a promise," he said, slowly. "Promise me you will not tell your papa about the pictures. If you want to know something about them, ask me, but not him. It will pain him to know about them."

She nodded. Her brown eyes were unusually grave.

"What did I tell you?" he asked her.

"Not to tell Papa about the pictures."

"Yes, and?"

"If I have a question about them, to ask you."

"You will ask me, Gracie, won't you?"

She nodded again. Nadir caressed her cheek.

"Good girl."

He stood up and knocked at the door.

* * *

**Author's notes:** Thank you all for the reviews! You guys rock! A special thanks to Allegratree for her corrections and to Nicole Gruebel for her comments on several chapters. It was really nice to read your immediate reactions to every scene! 


	14. Chapter 14

Gracie woke up. She was warm, in her bed, covered by blankets. It was late at night. A ray of moonlight filtered through the curtains and illuminated the shiny floorboards and the edge of the carpet, leaving the corners of the room in deep shadow. Gracie hugged Lily, her favourite doll, huddling deeper into the blankets. And then she heard it again, a low, distressed moan that filtered through the crack of the door and into her room. Gracie knew that sound, that voice. She cast the blankets to one side and hopped from the bed.

Padding on bare feet and holding Lily against her chest, she opened the door of her room and stepped into the hall. She crossed it and pushed the door in front of her. The door opened silently on well oiled hinges.

This room was darker, and Gracie could barely make out the form lying on the bed. It moved to one side, an arm covering its head, and moaned again in anguish:

"No! No, please. Show some mercy. . ."

"Papa?" asked Gracie.

"No, not the whip, please. . . I'll play, I'll play. . ."

Gracie stepped closer, until she was beside the bed.

"Papa, wake up. It is a nightmare."

Papa cowered from her until his back hit the wall. Now both his hands were covering his head.

"No, please. . ."

Gracie lifted the covers and slid into the bed, beside him. She lay down and caressed the back of his hand.

"It is all right, Papa. You are dreaming. . ."

Suddenly, his arms darted forwards and grasped her to him. Gracie huddled closer, using his arm as a pillow.

"Gracie," he muttered, trembling.

He was still asleep, but now the nightmare had gone away. He would stop trembling in a little while and he would hold her until the morning. He would wake up before her and quickly adjust his mask. He always wore it. He even slept with it. He was very ugly, he had told her, and she wouldn't like seeing his face. When she woke up, he would ask her why she was in his bed again, and she would tell him that she had had another nightmare, that she had been afraid of staying alone in her room when she had woken from it. And he would believe her. He always did.

Gracie closed her eyes and told him what he had told her countless times when she had woken up from her own nightmares:

"Yes, Papa. Lily and I are here. You are safe. No one is going to harm you. . ."

She mumbled the last sentence against his chest, already half asleep.

* * *

"Come, Gracie," urged Darius as he made his way out of the store.

Gracie stopped looking at the big jars that held all kinds of sweets and trotted after him. She grasped his hand just as they were going out of the door. The customer's bell dinged and the door closed behind them.

"Now, where are we heading to?" asked Darius.

"To the market," piped Gracie.

"And what do we do in a market?"

"We buy food."

"What kinds of food?"

"Fruits, vegeta. . . vegeta. . ."

She always had problems with that one. Darius provided the necessary help.

"Vegetables."

"Vegetables," she repeated dutifully.

By then, they had come to the market and were making their way to the stand where Darius usually shopped. Darius continued with his questionnaire.

"What kinds of fruits?"

"Peaches, cherries, apples. . ."

Darius smiled at Gracie's list. Those were all her favourite fruits. He would have to remember to buy peaches for her. It was the right time of the year for peaches.

They came to the stand, and while they waited their turn, Darius resumed his lesson.

"What is that, Gracie?" he asked, pointing at a crate.

"Spinach," she answered, furrowing her nose in disgust.

Darius chuckled.

"Wouldn't you like spinach soup for supper?" he teased.

"No," was the categorical answer.

Darius chuckled again.

"What would you like for supper, then?"

"Patates à la crème!" she beamed.

"Ah, ah, ah. . ." Darius lifted an admonishing finger.

Her brow furrowed in concentration, while she searched for the words.

"Potatoes. . . in cream?" her voice voiced a question.

Darius considered it for a second. Since there was no precise equivalent in Farsi for "patates à la crème", "potatoes in cream" would have to do. He nodded. Only then did he notice that the customers and the owner of the stand were staring at them.

"What would it be, Monsieur?"

"Ah. . .huh. . ." Having been caught off ward, he was having trouble going back to French.

"A kilo of potatoes," piped a voice beside him.

The stand owner raised a thick grey eyebrow and looked at him questioningly.

"Yes, Mademoiselle is right," said Darius in his thick accented French. "A kilo of potatoes."

They made their way back home, Darius carrying the basket and Gracie munching on a peach.

"Yes, Gracie?" Asked Darius when he felt the tell-tale tug on his hand.

"Darius, what does 'stubborn' mean?"

Darius' eyebrows darted upwards. That was quite a term. He wondered in which conversation Gracie had picked it.

"It's a. . . trace of character," he explained, asking himself whether he was using too complicated words. "It's when somebody is very hard to convince."

Gracie nodded. After a while, she asked again:

"Are mules stubborn?"

Darius couldn't help bursting in a peal of laughter. Now he could picture in what kind of conversation Gracie had heard it.

"Well, yes. When a mule decides to stand still it is almost impossible to make it walk again."

Gracie nodded again and had another bite of her peach.

Darius considered it was time to tell Monsieur Kahn and Monsieur Erik about Gracie's knowledge of Farsi. He had started teaching her words and simple phrases behind their backs after she had, once, answered one of his questions in that language. Not only had her intelligence given him a pleasant surprise, but it had also given him great pleasure to be able to teach her his mother tongue.

Monsieur Kahn and Monsieur Erik usually employed Farsi whenever they talked about something not meant for Gracie's ears. They often discussed and even quarrelled in her presence. Maybe it was time to make them aware they should be more careful with their words now that she had gone way beyond the names of fruits and vegetables.

* * *

**Author's notes: ** Thank you Moomoo-Sama, La russe, Violinrose, Sue Raven and Allgratree for your comments! Yes, a couple of years have gone by since Gracie started living with Erik... And concerning his appearance... I hope this chapter casts a little bit more light on it! Please keep the comments coming!  



	15. Chapter 15

The tip of the pencil broke against the paper and Gracie frowned. The numbers on the page were big and crooked, and the page was covered in stains and smudges. She looked at the other page on the table, the one Papa had written the problems on. It was white and smooth, and the numbers were even and slim. Gracie's cheeks burned in frustration. Why couldn't she write as beautiful numbers as him? Stupid, stupid pencil, she thought, as she watched it. How could it seem so light and easy to handle when Papa wrote and yet be so long, heavy and unruly when her fingers wrapped around it?

However, it was not entirely the pencil's fault. Gracie's hands were too small, too weak and too clumsy to do what Papa easily did. He could span an octave with one hand in the piano and he always played with ease. She had trouble playing a simple tune and often struck the wrong key. When they made dinner together, he peeled three potatoes while she struggled with one. The rind of the potatoes he peeled was a thin continuous strip while she could only produce thick, short stripes. When they painted, he spread the colour evenly. Her paintings were uneven and smudged.

All that made her angry, but Papa never seemed to care that half of the potato ended up in the bin when she peeled it, that she struck false keys or that her lines were crooked and her paintings smeared. He just put the potatoes in the pot, told her to start over with the tune and hung her paintings in his bedroom. When they had taken down the decorations of the Christmas tree, he hadn't kept the beautiful stars he had made, but the small crooked ones she had cut out. Papa had also told her over and over that it didn't matter she couldn't draw straight lines or play a tune right away. It was all a matter of time and practice. Eventually, her hands would grow and they would learn the appropriate skills, and she would do things ten times better than he did. But Gracie couldn't understand why she had to wait years and years until she grew up. Why couldn't things just turn right, now?

With a sigh, she stood up and wandered to the sitting room, where Papa was sprawled on his armchair, reading a book. He looked up as soon as she came in.

"What is it, Gracie?"

She pursed her lips and showed him the pencil. He smiled, put aside his book and leant forward.

"Aha, so it needs sharpening again, doesn't it?"

She pressed her lips tighter, ashamed, trying hard not to cry. His bemused smile softened, and he waved a hand beckoning her.

"Come here, love."

She went to him. He opened his arms and she climbed on his lap. She snuggled against his chest, still fighting tears of embarrassment. He hugged her and nuzzled the top of her head. She liked when he did that. It tickled. After a little while, he spoke.

"Do you think you can let the pencil go?"

She gave him the pencil, and he reached for his penknife. Still with her on his lap, he sat on the edge of the chair, opened the knife and started to sharpen the pencil with swift, precise movements. He was careful to stretch his long arms so neither the pencil or the knife were close to her face. Gracie watched as the white chips jumped and flew towards the fireplace. Not a single one landed on the carpet. In no time, he was finished and handed the pencil back to her.

"There you go. How many problems have you solved?"

She sighed. He had posed ten problems and she had only figured out four.

"Four."

His visible eyebrow darted upwards.

"Four already?"

Suddenly, it didn't seem as if four were so few. She nodded, proud of herself.

"You'll be finished before we start supper, then. You're not hungry yet, are you?"

She shook her head.

"And you're not tired?"

"No," answered Gracie.

She felt expectation rise within her. That was a question Papa seldom asked, but when he did, he took her out with him. And she loved those outings. He would take her to the Bois or in long strolls along the Seine, to watch the moon reflected on the waters. They never went out during the day, because he couldn't go out where people would see him, but although their excursions took place in the dark, Gracie was never scared. She was with him, and he would always protect her.

"Good," his smile widened. "I have a surprise for you this evening."

Her eyes brightened, and Erik couldn't help chuckling.

"But first you'll have to finish your problems," he admonished, lifting his index finger in mock sternness.

She jumped from his lap and hurried to the adjoining room. Erik watched her as she climbed on the chair and started the new problem with renewed energies. He shook his head. If he had been told in the past that the blackmailing techniques he'd perfected during his years at the Opéra would one day prove handy to raise a child he would have laughed a whole day with the absurdity of it. But it was true. The only thing he had to do was to turn the threats into promises. . . And besides, Gracie was much more intelligent than Mesieurs André and Firmin had ever been. When he tried to force his hand, his blackmailing techniques would, more often than not, backfire on him. He would end up doing what she wanted and not the other way round. He picked up his book, smiling to himself.

* * *

Gracie hurried up and grasped Papa's hand tighter as she tried to guess where they were going. They were heading towards the river, but Papa had promised her a special surprise, a beautiful sight, so it couldn't just be a walk along the banks. They almost got to the Seine, but took a parallel course along one of the side streets, avoiding the promenade. Then they made a turn at one corner and ended into an avenue. Straight ahead was a long wide bridge lighted by gas lamps. Papa lowered his hat over his face. He looked around to make sure no one was on sight and he strode over the bridge. Gracie followed, bewildered by the brightness and feeling strangely vulnerable. When they had crossed the river, she noticed a huge building in front of them. They went up a few steps and strolled along its façade. It had three big doors and carved stone frames. She guessed it was a church. It was the biggest church she'd ever seen. Papa went around the corner of the building and stopped by a lateral door.

"Be still," he instructed, though she perfectly knew that she was supposed to stand by his shadow now that he had taken out of his pocket the two familiar metal sticks, curved at the end.

She had watched him pick more than one lock in their outings. He had explained to her that it was his way of shopping. Since he couldn't just stroll into the shops at daytime, he went into them at night, chose what he needed and left money for the owners. But she couldn't figure out what he was going to buy in a church. People only came to churches to talk to God and Papa. . .

The door opened, and he took her hand again. They entered the shadowy building.

"Papa, what. . . ?" Gracie was shocked still when the enhanced echoes of her whisper came back to her.

"This is a cathedral, Gracie," his voice was also multiplied by the arches and vaults, but his calm tone soothed her. "It is a beautiful building. Look."

He guided her a few steps further and stopped. He turned her around by the shoulders and pointed high above their heads. Gracie gaped. There, on the wall to their right, was a huge round window. She caught glimpses of many colours, but she couldn't make out the shapes, because the light was too dim.

"I'll ask Nadir to bring you during the day, so you can see the stained-glass windows properly. They were made many centuries ago. But now. . ." She looked up at him and caught his playful wink. "We're going to the roof."

He lifted her and carried her to the side of the building, pushed a small door open and went into a very dark and narrow staircase.

"Count the steps," he told her.

She started counting, sensing the movement of his body every time he climbed a step.

She had lost count at step number three hundred and twenty two and Papa was already breathing heavily when they came to a stop. He put her on the ground and she noticed him sensing the wall, grabbing something and pushing it with an effort. After two or three attempts, the door he was trying to open gave way and dim light flooded the stairwell. They stepped out.

The roof was flanked by two massive square towers and was very, very big. They had to cross a huge esplanade before they came to the balustrade that enclosed it. Gracie couldn't believe her eyes when she gazed over it. They were really high. Far below them, the Seine gleamed like a silver strip and the lights from the buildings on the bank opposite were like small candles. Papa stood by her, pointing several buildings to her, showing her the direction in which they lived, the place where he guessed Uncle Nadir's apartment was. After a while he guided her to the centre of the roof, sat down and extended his cloak so she could sit beside him.

"Look up," he whispered.

She raised her eyes to meet the huge sky. It was clear, and there were many stars. And then, there was a gleam of light, a tiny stripe that crossed the dark expanse at her left.

"Papa!" she exclaimed, "Did you see that?"

"It was a shooting star, Gracie. Look, there's another one."

She only caught the glimpse of it, following the direction of his finger. But then there was another one to her left, and another one, and another one. She giggled. They were beautiful, just as he had promised.

* * *

**Author's notes: **Thanks everybody for the reviews! I'm really happy to know you are enjoying this story as much as I've enjoyed writing it. Please, keep them coming!  



	16. Chapter 16

Erik came into the sitting room bearing an armful of logs and knelt by the fireplace. He blew on his fingers to warm them. It was so chilly within the apartment these days. He'd better warm the rooms before Gracie woke up.

He dusted the fireplace. There were too many ashes to start a new fire. When he set the dustpan in place to gather them, a twitch in his left shoulder made him grunt. His old wound was bothering him again. The pain in his shoulder, which extended to his chest and his left arm, was surely the effect of the damp cold of winter.

Moving slowly, he crumbled some sheets of an old newspaper and put them on the grate. He put some logs on top of them. He then looked for the matches. Oh damn. They were on the mantelpiece. As he straightened up, the room swayed. Erik grasped the edge of the mantelpiece. He tried to take deep breaths. His chest was somehow tight, but after a minute he felt steadier.

He shouldn't stand up so fast, not when he was so tired and hadn't even had a cup of tea. His dreams had awakened him several times during the night.

He knelt by the fireplace once again, opened the matchbox and struck a match. It broke, and Erik watched as the head of the match, already burning, flew towards the fireplace. He heard it sizzle against the paper. A single strand of smoke rose from the grate. A minute later, he realized he was still staring at the crumpled paper.

He struck another match and carefully lit the edges of the newspapers. He waited until the paper was already burning before he stood up, slowly this time. The pain in his shoulder and left arm had now progressed into throbbing.

He put the matches on the mantelpiece and turned around, and the room was suddenly grey. He couldn't move. Time stopped, and then the edge of the coffee table approached at an astounding speed. And there was only blackness.

Gracie heard the loud thump in the sitting room. She had been dozing in bed for some time now, listening to Papa's movements. She had heard his steps as he had gone first into the kitchen and then into the sitting room. That loud noise must have been him. She waited for the muttered curses that would follow, but her ears were only met by silence. She cast the covers to one side, slid her feet into the warm slippers and went out to investigate.

"Papa?"

He was lying on the carpet, one arm under his body, the other above his head, as if he had fallen asleep on the floor. But Papa never slept on his stomach. She came closer, knelt by him.

"Papa?"

She shook him by the shoulder. He didn't stir.

"Papa? Papa!" She was crying now.

Using all her strength, she turned him around. His mask was broken. Half of it fell to the floor, beside his right ear. Gracie stared at the rivulet of crimson that ran across his forehead, along one of the deep furrows that crossed the right side of his face. There was a gash on his forehead, just above the ridge that marked the place where his right eyebrow should have been. It was bleeding.

"Papa? Papa?" Gracie kept calling him as she lifted the other half of the mask.

He opened his eyes and looked at her, bedazzled.

"Gracie?" his voice was a rasping whisper. "What? The fire. . ."

He closed his eyes. His image blurred, and Gracie swept the tears that overflowed her eyes. She shook him, called him, begged him to wake up, but he didn't open his eyes again.

She had to get Uncle Nadir. She darted towards the entrance, grabbed her cloak from the clothes rack and fumbled with the key. She managed to open the door and, still holding the key, slammed it behind her. She had gone down a flight of steps when she turned around and ran upstairs again. She locked the door. Otherwise evil men would come into the apartment and take him away, and lock him in a cage, and beat him.

She ran down the stairs and out of the building. The sludge on the sidewalk drenched her slippers and the hem of her nightgown, the freezing wind bit her bare legs, but she barely noticed.

Darius hurried down the hall, at the loud thumping on the front door. When he opened it, a sobbing Gracie fell into his arms.

"Darius! Papa, Papa! Uncle Nadir!" she screamed.

Nadir appeared at the entrance of his room, and she cast herself against him.

"Uncle Nadir!"

Nadir crouched in front of the hysterical child and held her by the shoulders.

"Slow down, Gracie. Hush. Come on, calm down."

She kept shuddering and crying, out of herself. Nadir shook her once, firmly.

"Calm down, Gracie," he repeated. "Tell me where your papa is."

"He's. . ." she hiccupped. "In the sitting room. He hit. . . his head. He won't. . . wake up."

At that, she started wailing again. Nadir hugged her. He lifted the child in his arms and looked at Darius.

"Go and get the doctor, Darius," he ordered curtly. "I'll go to Erik's. Meet me there."

Awkwardly, with one arm, he donned his scarf and his hat, cast his overcoat over Gracie and hurried downstairs. Darius helped him into a cab.


	17. Chapter 17

There was an unbearable pain in his chest, an unbearable ache in his head, and a familiar voice calling his name. With an immense effort, Erik opened his eyes. There was something on the periphery of his vision, a flash of white above his right eye. He tried to lift his hand and sweep aside whatever that was, but his arm was heavy, as if made out of lead. It barely moved. Something hovered over him. He slowly focused on Nadir's features. What was Nadir doing here? And where was here? Where was he? The feeling of panic swept over him, closely followed by nausea. He turned his head, wincing at the pain. He recognized the ceiling and the upper parts of the walls in his room.

He heard Nadir's voice, dim, echoing:

"Shhh. Calm down, Erik. You've just had a. . ." Nadir's words died out.

Erik's eyes closed for a moment. The blink lasted an eternity.

"What?" he asked, but he couldn't hear his own words. There was greyness, and the sound of the pulse in his ears. And then the greyness darkened, and he faded away.

* * *

When he woke up again he seemed to be doing slightly better. He was warm, and the pain in his head and his chest had receded. His arms didn't weigh as much as before. He opened his eyes and tentatively moved his head to survey the room.

Things were odd, out of place. His clothes were heaped on the back of his chair, by the desk. One of his shoes was under the chair; the other was nowhere to be seen. The washbasin half filled with water and holding a piece of cloth was on the floor, beside the bed. The nightstand was full of flasks and glasses. Light filtered between the half drawn curtains. Nadir, deep shadows under his eyes, was dozing on the armchair.

The strange glimpse of white above his right eye was still there, and Erik gingerly touched it. It was a thick bandage, wrapped around his head. Where was his mask? He tried to lean on his elbows to peep over the nightstand and see if it was lying behind the mess. He winced as nausea washed over him at the movement. Nadir's eyes shot open, and his face was swept alternatively by waves of joy and concern. Nadir stood up and leant over Erik.

"Nadir, where. . ." Erik's voice cracked. It was hoarse and sounded strange.

Nadir took a glass from the nightstand and lifted Erik's head. He put the glass to Erik's lips and Erik drank. Then Nadir let his head back gently on the pillow.

"Welcome back, my friend," he said.

Erik closed his eyes for a second, gathering his bearings.

"Why do you have to be so dramatic, Daroga?"

"Because you almost died on us, my friend. You had. . ."

"A heart attack, I know," Erik interrupted him. "When?"

"Yesterday. In the morning."

Erik nodded, his eyes slid shut again. Everything was still foggy. He was exhausted. He needed to rest. But his inner voice, the part of him that always had to have everything in check, told him he couldn't just abandon himself.

"My mask?" he asked.

There was a silence. Erik opened his eyes to meet a hesitant Nadir.

"Eh. . . Huh. . . It broke. . ."

"What?"

"You fell and hit your head against the coffee table. The mask broke."

Under the bandages, Erik's forehead creased. His headache was getting worse.

"And you. . . How did you. . ."

"Gracie found you. She came to my apartment."

Erik's chest constricted with a new pain when he began to understand the implications of Nadir's words. No, God, not that. Not _that_. It wasn't possible. It couldn't be possible. And yet. . . Memories came back to him. Clear, merciless images: him lighting the fire in the sitting room; him standing up and feeling inexplicably sore and exhausted; the coffee table approaching as he fell; Gracie's face, streaked with tears, bending over him. The pain knocked out the air of his lungs. Oh God.

"Gracie?" he managed to whisper.

"She's in the kitchen, with Darius. Do you want me to. . .?"

Nadir's voice trailed off, at the sight of the incredible sorrow that surfaced on Erik's ravaged features.

Erik stared at the ceiling, in a desperate effort to rein himself in, to gather the courage for what he would have to do. It was so unjust. They had lived together. . . How long? Little over three years. He had not been given enough time to be with her. There was still so much he had to teach her, to share with her. So many things to do together. He had dreamt of watching her grow up. . . But it was all over. She had seen the horror that was his face. She would only recoil from him now.

"Her dresses are in the wardrobe, in her room," he started, in an even, monotone voice that betrayed all his heartache and despair. "Her shoes are stashed under her bed. Her toys are. . . In the bunk, at the foot of the bed. Make sure she takes Lily with her. It's her. . ." The knot in his throat got unbearably tight. He cleared it, breathed in, and continued: "Her favourite doll. The one in the lilac dress. She can't sleep without her. She might also. . ." he faltered.

No, she wouldn't want to take with her the mobile that hung by the window, though she had liked it so much. He had made it for her, and she would now detest it. Any memento of him would only be a source of nightmares. Erik grasped the blankets, in an effort to contain the dejection that was drowning him like a tide.

"But Erik. . ."

"Take her to your place, Daroga. Find her a new. . ." His voice broke. He tried again: "Find a. . ."

Suddenly, the door opened, and a timid, high-pitched voice called:

"Papa?"

Erik's head jerked away from the door, in an attempt to hide his face.

"Go to your room, Gracie," he ordered, but his voice was but a cracked moan, barely understandable to his own ears.

She came into the room, filled with wonder.

"You awake?" she ventured.

Erik opened his mouth to answer, but found himself at a loss for words. He was staring intently at the wall, his shoulders already quivering, his rigid self control crumbling under the pressure. Gracie looked at Nadir, a questioning look in her face and the Persian nodded towards his friend. He knew the little girl didn't need too much encouragement to go to her papa.

Gracie's footsteps approached, and Erik closed his eyes, unable to face the humiliation. Why didn't the Daroga take her away? Gracie's little hand grasped his forearm. She climbed onto the bed and before he could snap at Nadir, her other hand was upon his cheek, his scarred cheek, trying to make him turn his head and look at her. He resisted. She leant over him, and kissed his good cheek softly. She then curled beside him, using his shoulder as a pillow, just like she had done countless times when she had had a nightmare and sought his bed. Erik could no longer fight the tears.

"Papa? Are you getting better?"

The sweetness in her voice was more than flesh and blood could stand.

"Oh, Gracie," he sighed.

The weight of her head lifted from his shoulder.

"Is he, Uncle Nadir? Is he going to be all right?"

Nadir's warm, thick accented voice downed on him.

"He will, Gracie. As long as. . . As long as you stay with him. Will you let her, Erik?"

Erik nodded, eyes still tightly shut. Nadir's footsteps retreated towards the door.

"I'll be in the sitting room."

And the door closed. Gracie's head rested again on his shoulder.

* * *

**Author's notes: **Thanks everybody for the reviews. Keep them coming! They keep me going, you know. 


	18. Chapter 18

Erik watched with fascinated detachment the movement of the second hand in the doctor's watch while he measured Erik's pulse. The watch was too fast. It would be at least half an hour ahead by the end of the week. Nonetheless, imprecise as his watch was, Erik knew the doctor would notice his slow, erratic pulse. Just like he couldn't possibly oversee the other symptoms. Erik's hands were always cold and clammy. The base of his nails had a faint bluish tint. His pallor was too pronounced. He was still overcome with nausea and dizziness whenever he tried to sit upright. And he was so tired. . .

Finishing his exam, the doctor fished a notebook and a fountain pen from his pocket. He sat on the chair beside the bed, and Erik couldn't help but wonder at the equanimity the man displayed. Despite the fact that Erik was not wearing his mask, Doctor Albaret kept addressing him like he would talk to any other person. He didn't avert his gaze from Erik's face, he didn't show the slightest trace of pity or disgust when he looked at the ravaged features. When he sounded Erik's lungs or heart or took his pulse, it was with a firm, professional touch. And he talked to Erik directly and politely, not with the condescension with which other doctors had treated Erik in the past. The condescension with which one spoke to a wounded beast.

"Have you been eating, Monsieur Devaux?"

The question caught Erik by surprise, lost, as he had been, in his thoughts. It took him a couple of seconds to find an answer.

"Not much."

"How have you been sleeping?"

Erik raised his eyebrows.

"Not very well," he admitted.

If the doctor treated him with professionalism and earnestness, the least he could do was return the gesture.

The doctor nodded and wrote something down on his notebook.

"You have to eat better, Monsieur Devaux. Despite the nausea. I'll order you to drink chamomile tea every evening. I think you'll need a new measure of your prescription as well," he said nodding towards the bedside table, where an almost empty bottle of medicine stood.

Erik couldn't help a sneer.

"Will it help?"

The doctor stopped writing and regarded him evenly.

"I think you know that, such as things stand, nothing will really help, just like we discussed last time. The only things that might help are food, rest and will to live."

Erik had to make an effort to hold the gaze of the doctor. Erik had always known there was no cure for his condition, and that, if he wasn't killed, the most likely cause of his death would be another heart attack. He also knew that the symptoms he was showing now were not good signs at all. He had made his knowledge clear to the doctor from the start, wanting to avoid any kind of patronising attitudes. To his astonishment, doctor Albaret had taken Erik's straightforwardness in stride, acquiescing even in discussing the course of treatment and the composition of the medicine to be prescribed.

"I meant the chamomile tea," Erik explained.

The doctor's stance relaxed. A smile hinted at the corners of his lips.

"Anything that contributes the least to make you sleep will be beneficent. It was my grandmother's favourite remedy. And grandmothers are always right, aren't they?" he asked more lightly as he returned to his scribbling.

"I wouldn't know," said Erik.

It came out with more sharpness than he intended. The doctor's fingers tightened around the fountain pen.

A silence followed. It was interrupted, at last, by the ripping of paper as the doctor detached the sheet from his notebook. He handed it to Erik.

"It's the same medicine, and still the same dose," the doctor commented. "A spoonful, three times a day."

"It'll be better if you give the instructions to Darius," said Erik handing the sheet back. "He's much better at following doctor's orders than I am."

"I'd rather discuss them with you, Monsieur Devaux. You are, after all, the one most concerned with your treatment."

"Well, that's a matter of perspective," Erik sighed, leaning his head against the mound of pillows.

To his surprise, the doctor shook his head, disapprovingly.

"Monsieur, I think you should. . ." he made a pause. "Please excuse me if I'm being rash. But you will not make it unless you take this into your own hands."

Erik regarded the doctor, wide eyed, incapable of conceiving the fact that anyone who was staring directly at his face spoke of his demise as something else than a good riddance. The man took a deep breath, as if he was going to plunge into a deep pool, and continued.

"I've witnessed your daughter's love for you." At that, the doctor's eyes darted down, but his voice didn't falter. "I think it would be an immense injustice to deprive her of her father at such an early age."

As soon as he stopped speaking, the doctor's gaze rose again and focused on Erik's features. Erik was stunned.

"I pray you think about it, Monsieur Devaux. I wish you a good afternoon."

The doctor stood up and extended his hand. Erik took it. A cordial, firm grasp seized his cold, bony fingers, and then the doctor made his way out. Erik was unable to utter a word until the door had closed behind the man.

"Good afternoon to you too, doctor Albaret," he whispered.

Exhausted, he let his head fall on the pillows again. He closed his eyes.

Not five minutes later, the door opened and the pattering of small feet crossed the room. Gracie sat on the edge of the bed, beside him. Erik didn't open his eyes, fighting the shame, the feeling of exposure, the deep ingrained instinct to cover his face. She lay down, nestling against him, as had become her custom during the last few days. Erik's arm curved around her.

Had the good doctor sent her to his room to strengthen his argument?

Did it matter?

For once in his life, Erik resolved it was not worth thinking about the base motives of mankind. Gracie was there, with him. That was enough.

He turned his head and brushed the top of her head with his twisted lips.

* * *

**Author's notes: **Wow! So many reviews! I wanted to thank you personally: Moomoo-sama, Nicole Gruebel, Sue Raven, Sat-Isis, Allegratree, Allonym, Leesainthesky for reviewing. Really, your words are encouraging, especially when you comment about specific parts of the work. 

I hope you liked this chapter. Any comments, questions, critiques... well, you can click on the small button on the left. It will only take a couple of minutes, and it will make me really happy!


	19. Chapter 19

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Gracie watched as Darius stirred the contents of the saucepan on the stove. The movement, which had been slow at first, had been gradually increasing in speed, and now Darius was beating the paste thoroughly. It must be already thick, Gracie thought. Now Darius would set it off the stove and let it cool down, still beating it, and then he would take it to Papa's room, where Papa and Uncle Nadir had locked themselves right after the doctor's visit. 

Gracie thought it was foolish they had closed the door and proceeded with such secrecy, for she had already guessed what they were doing. It wasn't the first time she had seen paste been made, and she knew what it was being used for. She and Papa had made a lot of figures of papier-mâché in the past and Papa had been quite uncomfortable without his mask these days. He had repeated over and over that he'd make another one as soon as the bandages were taken off, and the doctor had said that same morning that the wound on his forehead had healed.

What she didn't understand was why they didn't let her help. Perhaps they deemed the sight was not fit for a child's eyes, just as they said their whispered discussions, in which they called each other arrogant, hard-nosed, self-righteous camel and stiff-necked, sullen, over-suspicious mule, were not fit for a child's ears.

Gracie didn't mind they left her out of their conversations. She listened to bits of them from the hall, anyway. But it was boring to be left alone the whole morning. Besides, she didn't like it when she couldn't check on Papa now that he was ill. She was afraid he would faint again. She quivered and felt, once again, the urge to see him, to make sure he was doing all right.

"What is it, Gracie? Are you cold?"

Gracie lifted her eyes to meet those of a concerned Darius. She shook her head.

"Are you sure?"

Gracie nodded. Darius nodded too, though he could sense there was something wrong with the child. It would take some time to coax out of Gracie whatever was bothering her, and he had to bring the paste to Monsieur Erik before it was too cold. He headed out of the kitchen, but he hadn't crossed the threshold when a timid voice called after him.

"Darius. . ."

Darius turned around briskly. He had known there was something amiss.

"Yes?"

"When will they finish?"

"They are almost done, Gracie," he answered, before he went down the hall and into Monsieur Erik's room, with Gracie at his heels.

He couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt as he closed the door behind him. He had trouble dealing with Gracie's pitiful look of pleading.

The room was in complete havoc. Not that it had been very tidy since the onset of Monsieur Erik's illness, but today, with all the activity that had followed the doctor's visit, it seemed something close to a bazaar. Monsieur Erik had insisted on sitting up for the process of making the masks, so the armchair, usually by the fireplace, had been placed by the window, besides the desk. It's back and arms had been covered by towels. The desk held a bowl of water, bandages, pieces of ripped paper and the two masks that had already been finished. Pieces of paper had flown from the desk and lay scattered on the floor. The fire was burning low on the grate. Neither Monsieur Nadir nor Darius had time to stoke it. There were empty, dirty teacups on the nightstand, besides the usual half-filled glass of water and bottles of prescriptions. That day's newspaper was splayed out on the empty, disarrayed bed. Perhaps if Monsieur Erik could be persuaded to sit up a little bit longer, mused Darius, he would have the chance to change the sheets. Monsieur Erik had always been quite peevish about order and cleanliness, and now that he was once again coming close to himself he'd started noticing the small chaos of which he was the centre.

Darius left the pot with the paste on the desk and soaked a piece of paper in it. He handed it to Monsieur Kahn, who applied it to the partly finished half-mask on Monsieur Erik's face. Then Darius held the mirror up so Monsieur Erik could look at the process.

"We'll only need a couple more," said Erik.

Darius noticed Monsieur Erik was now reclining his head on the back of the chair, and the movement of his hand, which indicated the place where the next paste-soaked piece of paper had to be applied, was slow and a little bit vague. He must be terribly tired already.

After the mask was finally placed besides its two companions, Darius set the washbasin on Monsieur Erik's lap and handed the water jug to Monsieur Kahn.

"I need to arrange the bed, Monsieur Kahn," he explained.

"I can wash myself," interrupted Erik curtly.

"It will be easier if someone pours the water for you, my friend," replied Nadir.

"I'd rather do it."

"It will be faster this way. Gracie is waiting."

Years as the Daroga of Mazanderan had trained Nadir's voice to modulate with a tone of finality that could not always be contested. Erik sighed and cupped his hands to receive the water.

Gracie had been gnawing at her thumbnail and measuring the precise distance that separated Papa's door from hers. There were exactly twenty-two feet. If Papa measured it with his, it would surely be no longer than ten feet or so. She turned around and flattened herself against her door to check that she had measured correctly when the door to Papa's room opened. Instead of closing it straightaway, Darius made space so she could come in. Her eyes fell immediately on Papa's bed, and a sick feeling tightened her stomach when she saw it was empty, the covers carefully smoothed and open. She was elated when she spotted Papa, in a clean nightshirt, sitting on the armchair. She ran to him and leant her head on the blanket that covered his lap. Papa's hand caressed her head.

"Look at the masks we've made, Gracie," Uncle Nadir's soft voice spoke from behind.

She lifted her head and peeked over the arm of the chair. There were _three_ of them, not just one!

"Go have a look," said Papa.

She went to the desk and climbed on the chair to get a better view. They were half-masks, very similar to the porcelain one he had always worn, but they didn't have any eye slits.

"What about the eye?" She asked, turning around.

She was shocked still when she noticed Uncle Nadir was grabbing Papa's forearms to help him stand. Slowly, falteringly, supported by Uncle Nadir, Papa crossed the room. He didn't answer her, as if the few steps required all of his concentration. Only when he was sitting on the bed, he seemed to grasp the meaning of her question. He smiled, but the smile didn't brighten his eyes.

"We'll have to wait until they're dry to cut the eye out," he explained, as he clumsily leant on his side and lifted his legs.

After what seemed an eternity, he was lying on the bed.

"And then we'll also have to give them a coat of paint. Would you like to do that, Gracie?"

"Not to the ones I'll take to the porcelain maker," interrupted Uncle Nadir.

Papa furrowed his brow.

"You're such a bore, Nadir," he complained, and despite his frighteningly slow and clumsy movements, despite the dread that his weakness provoked in her, Gracie smiled.

"Can I put on the ribbons too?" she asked.

"Of course you can, love. Unless there's some Persian rule of decorum against it."

Uncle Nadir cast such an offended look at Papa that Gracie couldn't help but giggle.

* * *


	20. Chapter 20

* * *

Gracie pushed the door to Papa's room open. The sight of the empty bed brought a wrench of anguish. In the dim light of dawn, she quickly viewed the room. It was deserted. She turned around and stood on top of the staircase of the small summerhouse, where she had a look of the sitting room. It was empty as well. She ran downstairs and into the kitchen. No one. She hurried out to the terrace. One of Papa's books was lying on the low table, by the chaises longues. She ran down the steps that separated the terrace from the garden, crossed it, and headed down the path that led to the small inlet. She came to the pebbly shore, but it was also deserted. She called out to him. 

"Papa!"

Only then she spotted the heap of clothes a few yards from her. She rushed towards them. They were his. A folded towel lay on top of them. She turned towards the sea. He was nowhere to be seen. Her call turned into a wild cry.

"Papa! Papa! Papa!"

"Gracie?"

She dashed away the tears that filled her eyes and finally picked out his head among the waves. Then his voice reached her again, comforting, enveloping her as if he wasn't speaking from a distance, but close to her.

"It's all right, Gracie, I'm coming."

She saw him start swimming towards the shore, his long arms sliding gracefully through the waves. After a while, he spoke again.

"Turn around and sit down, Gracie. Look at the house. Tell me if you can see Uncle Nadir."

She guessed he didn't want her watching him coming out of the sea. She obeyed.

"He's not out yet, Papa," she said.

"Do you see him?" he asked.

He hadn't heard her, for she had spoken while looking away from him. But she was not going to turn around if it made him uncomfortable. She shook his head. He chuckled.

"He must still be snoring away, the old gaffer."

His voice held a naughty undertone. It made her smile. Then she heard the light crunch of the pebbles as he came close. She sensed him bending down to pick up the towel. She must have moved, for he spoke again and this time he couldn't hide a tone of urgency.

"Don't turn around yet."

She waited patiently, watching, out of the corner of her eye, how his hand let the towel fall and picked up, first the mask, then his clothes: the loose fitting pants, the long sleeved undershirt, the wide, richly embroidered robe. Finally, he let himself fall beside her. She looked up at him, trying to smile. Papa's eyes were filled with concern.

"What was it, tot?"

She turned around to face the sea again, and inched closer to him. His arm circled her, protectively, and she let out a sigh, finally feeling safe and at ease.

"Did you have a nightmare?"

She shook her head.

"What happened, then?"

"I thought. . . I couldn't find you."

"I was having a swim."

"I saw your clothes, but. . . I didn't see you. I thought. . . I thought you were gone," she whispered.

She edged closer. His hand rubbed her back tracing gentle, soothing circles.

"I'm not going anywhere, love. I promise."

She looked up, trying to find reassurance in his eyes. He hugged her closer.

"You won't faint again?"

He shook his head.

"I'm strong, now. I'm doing fine. And if you don't believe me. . ." he said, poking her ribs lightly with his index finger. "I know you were eavesdropping last time doctor Albaret visited. You heard what he said, you little urchin."

Gracie laughed under his attack, and it encouraged him to tickle her with both hands. She tried to writhe out of his reach, but she only managed to squirm a few feet away. She laughed until her stomach was hurting.

"No more, no more, Papa, please. . ." she begged.

He stopped, flashing a smile, and leant back on one elbow. He looked over the sea, his eyes taking in the vast expanse, the cloudless sky.

"It's beautiful out here, isn't it, Gracie," he whispered, contented.

She nodded, and took in his lean, elegant figure, easily reclined on the pebbles of the shore.

Papa had laughed heartily when Uncle Nadir had presented him with a set of Persian clothes the day they had arrived to the little summerhouse. Papa had asked if the clothes were a requirement to gain admittance to Nadir's summer abode, and had seized every opportunity to make fun of Uncle Nadir's nostalgic dressing code, as he had called it. But he seemed more comfortable in those clothes than in the starched shirts, well fitting waistcoats and perfectly pressed pants he normally wore. His back and shoulders were not so tense, and he would often lie back on one of the chaises longues in the terrace or on the grass in the garden, just like he was doing now on the shore.

Gracie's eyes fell on the thick, crooked white lines around his wrists. Absentmindedly, one of her fingers traced one on his left wrist. Papa shivered and shrank back. He sat up.

"Aren't you hungry? It's already time for breakfast."

With swift movements, he gathered his towel and slid his feet in the sandals. He stood up and held out a hand. Gracie grabbed it and in no time she was gently pulled to her feet.

"Darius made halva yesterday evening," he said, almost casually.

Gracie knew he had been waiting to see her reaction when she looked up delighted, and he snickered.

* * *

That night, Gracie had been sent to bed too early for her liking. She tossed and turned in bed for a while, but when sleep refused to come, she slipped into the landing of the stairs. She huddled on the first step and looked through the bars that supported the handrail. Papa and Uncle Nadir were sitting by the fire, playing chess.

". . . cannot take care of two households anymore, Erik," Uncle Nadir was saying.

"He doesn't have to," huffed Papa.

He was in a bad mood. Gracie could tell from the stiffness of his back and the tightness of his lips.

Uncle Nadir's hand reached out and hovered over one of the white towers. It remained there for a second before he moved it.

"You know that's not entirely true, my friend."

"He can do the shopping. I will take care of everything else, just like before."

"There's no need to overburden yourself," countered Uncle Nadir.

Papa glared at that.

"I am not overburdening myself," he stated, stressing every word.

Uncle Nadir's eyes darted away, towards the fireplace. Papa focused on the chessboard. There was a tense silence. At last, Papa moved one of his pawns and leant back. Uncle Nadir was still staring at the flames.

"It's your move," Papa spoke at last.

Uncle Nadir contemplated the chessboard for a long time. Then he moved his tower back. He looked at Papa openly.

"Look, my friend. I know you're perfectly capable of caring for yourself and Gracie but. . ."

"But what?"

"What would happen if you had another heart attack?"

Gracie watched, with wonder and growing alarm, how Papa averted his gaze and stared at the pieces on the board.

"That's not going to happen," he replied, but his voice was hushed, not so firm anymore.

"Erik, she came to my apartment in her nightgown and slippers, in the middle of winter. She was alone, in the streets, in her nightgown. She's only nine. How do you. . ."

"I know. I _know_!" snapped Papa.

Uncle Nadir fell silent. Papa moved his bishop, but Uncle Nadir didn't notice. He was watching Papa from underneath his thick eyebrows.

"You wouldn't have to worry about anything. I would put the ad in the newspaper, interview the candidates. . ."

"I will _not_ allow a stranger in my home. I'm still a wanted man."

"I know that. I would check the references thoroughly. I was not born yesterday."

Uncle Nadir's voice had an ironic edge. Papa's words were derisive in turn:

"And how exactly would you know whom to trust, Daroga? Have you now turned into a mind reader?"

"I'm not a bad judge of character. You're proof of that, after all."

"Of what? That I was a wicked scoundrel in desperate need of a conscience? Yes, Daroga. You could have hardly picked up a more hopeless case," Papa sneered bitterly.

Uncle Nadir winced and leant forward to hide it. He moved his queen.

"I'm not your conscience, Erik. By now I expected you to consider me your friend. And I wasn't wrong in choosing _you_ as a friend."

Papa remained silent, body taut, face unyielding, a strange blink in his eyes. He lingered long over the board and at last, with a slightly quivering hand he moved one of his pieces.

"Check."

Uncle Nadir studied the board carefully. He moved his queen forward again.

"A servant would also be able to take Gracie to school, you know," he commented casually.

Papa gave out a scoffing laugh.

"Gracie doesn't need to go to school. I've already taught her more than what any of those educators will ever know."

"She still needs to meet other people."

Papa killed Uncle Nadir's tower.

"Check."

Uncle Nadir covered his king with his horse. Papa backed his bishop. Uncle Nadir used his queen to block out Papa's bishop.

"And she needs to learn the principles of her faith."

"What is it with you and faith Nadir? Why so obsessed?"

Uncle Nadir sighed.

"She needs to learn the ways of the world, Erik. That includes religion."

Papa killed Uncle Nadir's queen.

"Check."

Uncle Nadir threatened Papa's queen with his tower.

"She will grow up one day, Erik, and she will have to live in society. You don't want to turn her into a recluse. Do you?"

Papa moved his queen and killed one of Uncle Nadir's pawns in the process.

"Check mate."

Uncle Nadir didn't seem to have heard him. He looked at Papa evenly.

"Do you?" he repeated.

"Check mate," Papa stubbornly replied.

Without casting a look at the board, Uncle Nadir toppled his king.

"Do you?"

Papa glowered at him, jaw tightly clenched, eyes flaring. Uncle Nadir raised one of his eyebrows in a questioning look. The air got thicker with tension, and Gracie held her breath, waiting for the outburst of Papa's temper. He would stand up in rage, pace the room and rant at Uncle Nadir in hissed and venomous tones which were more terrifying than loud screams.

The storm never came. Instead, Papa drew a sharp breath and lowered his eyes. Gracie was stunned. She'd never seen him so. . . worn out, so defeated.

"Look Nadir: just. . ."

His hand wavered emptily in front of him. He leant on the arm of the chair and stood up, shoulders slouched.

"Just let me be," he breathed wearily.

Gracie retreated back into the shadows, afraid he would lift his eyes and discover her, but he turned on his heels and walked out of the house. Gracie stood up silently and made her way into her room and towards the window. She wanted to keep an eye on him.

He was standing on the terrace, by the balustrade. For a long time, he stood there, facing the ocean, his back towards the house. Then he untied the mask. He put it down on the balustrade.

Its whiteness was bright against the stone. The leather mask Uncle Nadir had ordered for him would blend with the grey surface in the summer twilight, Gracie thought. Papa had worn it in their journey south, first in the private compartment in the train and then in the closed carriage that had picked them at the station. He had been pleased with that new mask. It was less conspicuous than the porcelain one and it allowed him to travel even during daylight. At a passing glance, it blended perfectly with the other side of his face. But although it was lighter than the porcelain one, its lining made it also stuffier, so he didn't wear it in the summerhouse, where he was well hidden from prying eyes.

When Gracie's eyes lifted from the mask towards his back again, she was stunned. Papa had lifted his right hand and was brushing the ravaged side of his face. She had never seen him touch it before, just as she had never seen him gaze into a mirror. Minutes trickled by as his fingers traced the ridges and scars on his forehead. At last, his shoulders heaved and his left hand reached for the mask. With a quick movement he slid it on and tied the laces. He turned around and Gracie drew a step back, so he wouldn't catch sight of her white nightgown, which also glowed in the twilight.

* * *

**Author's notes: **Hugs and kisses to everyone that's posted a review! Please write some more! Tell me whether you've liked the story so far... Virtual chocolate-chip cookies for every review!  



	21. Chapter 21

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**Note: **Before I begin, I have to thank my beta reader Allegratree for all her corrections. You've really made this story a whole lot better!

* * *

Françoise knocked once at the bedroom door and left the cup of plain, strong tea ―how could anyone drink such a concoction was beyond her― on the side table. Then she knocked at the door across the hall and entered.

"Good morning, Gracie," she said, as she strode towards the windows.

She opened the curtains and let the morning sunlight in. She was greeted with a low grunt from the bed, and Gracie turned against the wall.

"It's quarter past seven," remarked Françoise as she went out of the room. "Breakfast is ready."

She smiled as she saw the child sit up and rub her eyes. There was no better way to get that girl out of bed than to promise her a good meal.

She closed the door quietly, knowing that Gracie wouldn't go to sleep again and that Monsieur Devaux disliked unnecessary noises. He hadn't needed to give her a special instruction on that regard. She had avoided them altogether when she had noticed him wince at the slightest clunk or crash.

On her way back to the kitchen, Françoise noticed the cup of tea had already disappeared into Monsieur Devaux's room. She had never found out how he managed to move so swiftly and quietly. At first it had rattled her when she suddenly found him in a room she had thought was empty, or when he disappeared from the place he'd been a moment before. But he always apologised so civilly when she gave a start and every time she'd jumped up there had been something in his eyes that had struck her. It wasn't only that he seemed to deeply regret having scared her, but it was almost as if her fear pained him. So she had reined her nerves, and had slowly become accustomed to his sudden apparitions and disappearances.

Just as she had learned to follow his instructions to the letter. Not that she had ever gone against his wishes. Not that she had ever been careless in fulfilling his orders. No one could say Françoise Huet had ever been negligent in her work. She might be only a maid, yes, but she had always carried out her obligations most punctiliously. But many of Monsieur Devaux's orders had been so eccentric that Françoise had wondered about his motives for issuing them. The request that she never entered a room without knocking first at the door and receiving an answer was irrelevant and it cast doubt on her good manners. The demand that she didn't start any friendship with the other maids and servants in the neighbourhood had struck her as absurd. His derisive comments on gossip had been unnecessarily harsh and offensive. The order that she never, under any circumstances, abandoned her room at night was, to say the least, utterly irregular.

The first months she had worked for him, he had been aloof and imposing, severe and obsessive. His words were sharp, and his manners curt. And his way of life, always locked up in that apartment, backing up from the windows when he thought he could be seen from the outside, never receiving any visits but that of the mysterious foreigner that had first interviewed her, was odd and suspect. So, in those initial months, Françoise had followed his instructions warily and full of mistrust.

The circumstances that had surrounded her entering into his service had helped to form this first, negative impression of him. Françoise was not from Paris, and she didn't know the city well, although she had lived in it for more than fifteen years. She had come to the city when Mademoiselle Letellier, an old spinster she had come to serve in her native town of Gisors, had set her residence in the capital. It had been an odd occurrence, that such an old lady decided to sell all of her possessions and moved so far away from the place of her birth, but Mademoiselle Letellier had always been an independent type, so Françoise had never questioned her decision. She didn't have anyone back home, either, so it wasn't like she was going to miss anybody. She served Mademoiselle for many years, never venturing farther away from the apartment than the local grocer's. When Mademoiselle died and her heirs sold the apartment, auctioned the furniture and shared out the rest of her belongings, Françoise found herself in need of a position and a place to live.

Marie, one of the servants of the Leiris family, had helped her out. She had found a small room for Françoise and had sought a job for her. Marie had found the ad in the newspaper and had urged Françoise to answer to it. Marie had instructed her about how she should answer the questions and which names and addresses she had to give when asked for references. Marie had advised her to try to get the job, despite the mysterious behaviour of the foreigner who had talked to all of the people she knew in the neighbourhood and who'd sent his servant to follow her for over a week, until Françoise had been half scared with worry. And then there had come the interview with her real employer.

The first talk with Monsieur Devaux had been unsettling, to say the least. She had been showed into a very dark sitting room and there she had stood, trying to adjust her eyes to the disconcerting twilight, long before she spotted the man sitting on the armchair on the darkest corner of the room. She could barely make out his form. He had asked her many questions, not only about her skills as a maid, but about herself, about her family, her acquaintances and her former employers, as if she was applying, not for a job, but to become a member of his family. At last, he had informed her of her duties. They were not extremely complicated. He lived alone with his only daughter, a child of nine. She would work six days a week, and would have one day free. Besides cleaning, cooking and shopping, washing and ironing, she would have to walk his daughter to school every day, and would accompany her to church on Sundays. And then he had said the first thing that had disturbed her deeply:

"I'm not a religious man, Mademoiselle. Gracie knows nothing of what goes on in a church. You'll have to teach her."

Many of the things he had said afterwards had sounded stranger than that, but none had been as striking as his last remark.

"I'm a very private person. I have a lifetime of experiences to prefer the quiet and solitude of my home to the public eye. I'll explain to you why I want it that way. Just once. And then I will not have the matter mentioned again. Understood?"

"Yes, Monsieur."

He suddenly stood up. Françoise was appalled by the swiftness of his movements and by his height. But she was most disturbed when the light of the fire illuminated his face. He was wearing a mask of the same colour of his flesh. It covered the right side of his face.

"I am deformed from birth, Mademoiselle. My face is. . . extremely ugly. That's why I wear a mask. And that's why I don't care for the company of others. Now, you are _not_ to comment this with anyone outside this house if you are willing to work here. The moment I find out you have been talking about my appearance you will be fired. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, Monsieur," whispered Françoise. She could feel her knees trembling, but his forbidding expression kept her from bolting out of the room.

"Very well," he said. "You'll hear from me soon."

And with a wave of his hand, he dismissed her.

She curtsied and went out of the sitting room. The foreigner's manservant saw her out of the apartment. Françoise went down the stairs, out of the building and walked all the way to her room in a state of shock. She spent the next night awake, rolling in her bed, unable to sleep. What kind of household was she about to join? A household of heretics, that much was for sure. And who knew whether this masked man was not something worse than a heathen? An infidel had no morals.

It had taken her a long conversation with Marie and another sleepless night to make up her mind. The pay was almost regal, Marie had said. It would allow Françoise to retire, to have a little place of her own in her old age. Françoise knew Marie was right. She had vowed to herself that she would never, ever, find herself in the same position she was now, alone and bereft. Four days later, she had moved her few belongings to the little room by the kitchen, at the back of the apartment.

Françoise shook her head. It all seemed so long ago, and it had only been over a year and a half since she had entered Monsieur Devaux's service. So much had changed since the first weeks in the apartment, when she had wandered uneasily, eaten little and slept less, her nerves constantly on edge, awaiting some kind of terrible crime or catastrophe. Time had passed and other things had happened, things that had slowly undermined and eventually demolished her misgivings.

The first thing that had happened had been, of course, Gracie. Françoise had never lived with a child before, and the little girl had won her heart over. She was kind and sweet, and so intelligent. And the way she spoke of her papa. . . She just adored him. So Françoise had begun to think there must be something good in the haughty, forbidding masked man, for no child would ever love anyone who didn't have anything good in him. And then she had started to perceive Monsieur Devaux's kindness herself.

It expressed itself in odd and distant ways. Like the day in which he had appeared at the kitchen door and demanded to know if she had been feeling well, if she had been eating enough. Only then had she realised that he had noticed her pallor, her nervousness and the deep shades under her eyes. She had tried to downplay her discomfort, but he would not hear a word of it. He ordered her to buy whatever food she preferred at the grocer's, had told her not to spare wood to heat her room, and had informed her that should she still feel unwell by the end of the week, he would call his personal doctor to examine her. At that, her eyes had widened in shock. Never had any of her former employers concerned themselves so much about her welfare. But he misunderstood her commotion. His eyes darted away.

"I assure you, Mademoiselle, that he is an excellent physician. . . and an honourable person," he explained tiredly.

With those words he disappeared, before Françoise could reassure him that she hadn't doubted the honesty of his intentions.

The following days had been awkward, to say the least. Françoise didn't know how to clear up their misunderstanding, and he was curt when he addressed her, if he ever did. She had tried to make herself scarce, but it was hard not to come across him in the apartment.

On Thursday morning, the Persian's manservant had come by carrying several parcels. Monsieur Devaux trusted her to go shopping for groceries, but he resorted to the Persian's manservant for his other errands.

That evening, when Françoise had entered her room, she had found one of the parcels lying on her bed. She unwrapped it to find a soft, woollen blanket. Utterly surprised but also pleased, she had spread it over her bed. How had Monsieur Devaux figured out that it was slightly colder in her room than in the rest of the apartment, she couldn't conceive.

Early the next morning, she had knocked on his door. She heard him shuffle in the room long before he opened it. She was startled by his imposing figure standing on the doorway, but she reigned herself and didn't cower.

"Yes?" his voice was sharp.

"I thought you might like a cup of tea, Monsieur," she explained, offering it to him.

He blinked a couple of times, and then looked down at the cup.

"Oh. . . Thank you."

He reached out and gently took the cup. She curtsied and stepped back.

He was about to close the door when she called to him.

"Monsieur?"

"Yes?"

"Perhaps it would. . . Perhaps it would be more convenient for you if I left your tea on the table every morning?" she asked, motioning towards the finely carved side table by his door.

He raised his visible eyebrow in a quizzical look.

"Yes, thank you," he said at last.

"I should be thanking you, Monsieur. The blanket is most warm and comfortable," said Françoise, smiling.

He dropped his head in the most elegant, most gentlemanly nod she had ever seen.

"I'm glad it suits you. I trust you're feeling better, Mademoiselle?"

She smiled again, this time with more confidence.

"Yes Monsieur. Thank you for your concern."

He nodded again and finally closed the door.

And then Françoise had begun to understand a little of Monsieur Devaux's character, though it could be safe to say that she was often astonished whenever a new trace of his personality was revealed to her. Françoise had thought her former employer, Mademoiselle Letellier, had been an eccentric, but with Monsieur Devaux she had to redefine the meaning of the word.

He was sharp and curt at the most unexpected situations, and Françoise had to learn to be on her guard against his outbursts of sarcasm. On top of everything, he could also be extremely taciturn, his conversation reduced to the shortest monosyllables for days on end. Not that Françoise had ever been the world's greatest conversationalist but she definitely preferred when some polite sentences were intertwined with the 'yeses' and the 'nos'. And then there had been the periods in which Monsieur Devaux displayed a hectic activity, in which he seemed at the brink of bursting out while confined within the walls of the apartment.

The first week Gracie had been to school, Monsieur Devaux had paced the apartment restlessly, and had almost driven Françoise mad with his agitation and irritability. He couldn't sit down for more than five minutes. He opened the newspaper to throw it away a second later. He rummaged in his bookcase or his drawers impatiently, just to put away the object or the book he had been looking for after a heartbeat. He wandered from room to room, muttering curses under his breath, as if he had gone mad.

His dark moods only vanished in the afternoons, when Gracie came back home. Then he would have tea and spend time with her, reading to her, telling her stories or playing with her. Twice or three times a week, he would also give her a piano lesson. And there were also times where they would sit at the bench and play together. It was a joy to listen to them play, not only because the melodies were so pleasant and cheerful, but also because they often laughed when they made music. Monsieur Devaux's laugher was a rich and powerful sound, and Gracie's giggles were bubbling happiness.

Slowly, Monsieur Devaux had started to grow accustomed to Gracie's absence, and began making something out of his time. At first, he would design and construct intricate toys with which he surprised his daughter. After a few weeks, the toys were not enough, so he had given himself into drawing. A week later, he already had covered his desk with all kinds of drawings and had a sketchbook full of pictures of Gracie: Gracie smiling, jumping, sitting at the piano, kneeling by the fireplace, sleeping. He even drew some very funny caricatures of Gracie scowling, which had thrown the little girl into a rant.

And then he started drawing buildings. Every morning, Françoise would come into Monsieur Devaux's room with her brooms and brushes, cloth and feather duster to find the desk brimming with blueprints and drafts, which she would spend the next hour trying to order in neat piles. There were all kinds of buildings in Monsieur Devaux's drawings: houses, cafés, museums, public offices, train stations. The only things he didn't draw were churches.

When drawing had not been enough, he had started reading voraciously.

Twice a week, on her errands, Françoise was sent to one or another bookstore with a small note and she was told not to come back without fulfilling her errand. Sometimes, she would spend a few good hours just from one bookshop to the other, trying to find Monsieur Devaux's book. One day, one of the booksellers had sent a letter with the book Françoise had purchased. Monsieur Devaux's visible eyebrow had creased while reading it, but the next week he had sent Françoise to the bookshop with a letter to the bookseller.

Thus had started a correspondence between the two of them, and Monsieur Devaux had gotten many more books and magazines from that particular bookshop. When the bookseller had asked Françoise for their address so he could visit, she had answered that Monsieur Devaux was sick, that he suffered from a chronic illness, and didn't entertain.

"But surely a brief. . ."

Françoise pressed her lips and shook her head. No, she regretted to say so, but under no circumstance would Monsieur Devaux. . . The elderly bookseller nodded. He understood well. Would she transmit Monsieur Devaux his kindest regards? Françoise curtsied. Of course she would. The bookseller's eyes were kind.

Three days later, when she had returned to the apartment with another book and a letter, Monsieur Devaux's voice rose to a higher pitch when he called her back to the sitting room.

"Françoise. What did you tell Monsieur Renard?"

He was standing by the fireplace, the open letter in his hand.

Françoise looked down at her hands.

"He asked me for your address, Monsieur, so he could call over. I told him you didn't receive any visits because you were. . ." she stopped, uncertain.

"Because I was _what_?" he asked tightly.

"Because you were gravely ill," finished Françoise, still staring at her fingers. They were a little bit red. She had been scrubbing the kitchen floor earlier that morning.

Now he would be furious. He would cast her out to the streets. She would find herself without an employment and a place to live, and barely ten months after she had started working again. She had, of course some savings, but what would she do alone, in the city?

"Françoise?"

Monsieur Devaux's voice was imperious. She looked up. He was staring at her. He must have been talking for some time, she realised with embarrassment.

"Yes, Monsieur? I'm sorry, I didn't. . ."

"I said thank you, Françoise. For protecting my privacy."

She nodded in confusion, curtsied, and made her way out of the room.

Françoise smiled while she arranged the cups and plates on the table. Thus she had slowly felt more and more at home at the apartment on the fifth floor. There had been so many twists and turns in her life lately. It was like the road to Rouen, winding along the hills outside Gisors. She sighed and looked out of the window on the dining room. She remembered. . . But now she'd rather stop musing, she scolded herself. She had to warm the milk for Gracie's breakfast or the little girl would be late for school.

* * *

**Author's notes: **Whew! This was a long chapter. I hope it compensates for the fact I couldn't update yesterday. There was something wrong with ffnet. Thanks again to all reviewers. Every single bit of feedback is greatly appreciated. Please feel free to review again!   



	22. Chapter 22

* * *

Monsieur Louis Menand stared down at the pit that was supposed to be the site of the foundations for his grand edifice in dismay. The water there had to be at least half a metre deep. What kind of a constructor was he that he couldn't even dig a hole that didn't fill with water? He had tried every method he could to isolate the place, to make the ground firmer, but to no avail. How was he supposed to erect a modest eight story building over that marsh? 

He tried to keep an even expression and _not _to tap the ground with his foot. The day before he had caught one of the bricklayers mimicking his most common gesture of desperation under the benevolent gaze of the master builder himself. Well, what did he expect? All the men in the construction site were at least five years older than him. The master builder doubled his age. They all knew this was the first building that Louis had designed and were testing his abilities as a newly graduated architect. Louis had to remind himself not to sigh, lest he contributed to the repertoire of his spontaneous imitator. He was roused by the touch of a heavy hand on his shoulder.

"Monsieur? Monsieur!" the master builder roared in his ear.

Louis turned around.

"Yes?"

"There's a woman there. She says she wants to speak to you."

A woman? To speak to him? Louis raised his eyes. On the sidewalk, at the entrance of the construction site, stood a woman dressed in a plain cotton dress, a shawl across her shoulders, a bonnet on her head. She looked like a maid. Spurred by curiosity, Louis approached her.

"Yes Madame? May I help you?"

Her eyes met his, and despite her hesitant appearance, Louis saw firmness in them.

"Are you Monsieur l'Architecte?"

Louis nodded, as he tried to hide his smile and thanked inwardly to God that none of the workers were at a hearing distance. The last thing he now needed was a new nickname.

"I'm to give this to you, Monsieur."

She handed him a large, thick envelope. Stunned, Louis took it. There was no name, no address on the front of the envelope. He turned it over. It was sealed with an intricate and old fashioned wax seal, but there was nothing written on the back, either.

The woman had walked away when he lifted his eyes. He thought of calling out to her, but hesitated a moment. And when he had made up his mind she was already too far away.

Tapping his lips with the corner of the envelope, Louis turned around again to face his conundrum. He didn't have time for mysteries right now. The letter would have to wait.

He caught sight of the master builder and a couple of workers looking away. He sighed, exasperated with his workers, with himself, with the whole situation. Whom was he trying to fool, anyway? He just couldn't find the solution to all this.

"Boitard!" he called.

The master builder crossed, with firm strides, the distance that separated him from the architect.

"I'll be in my office if you need me," Louis said.

"All right, Monsieur."

Louis nodded to him and to the other workers on the site and walked down the street.

He had walked a short distance when he realised what he was in need of. A strong cup of coffee would be just the right thing. Wasn't there a café in the vicinity? Ah, yes, there was one on the corner. He would order a comforting cup of black coffee and he would open the letter. It would do him good to get his mind out of his problems, at least for a short while.

* * *

"I can't believe it!" Louis exclaimed as he stared at the neat draft that accompanied the concise letter he had just read.

He shook his head. It was so simple that he wanted to slap himself on the forehead. To think he hadn't been able to come across the solution by himself!

He read the letter again: _Monsieur:_ It started. And then, without another preamble: _The difficulties you have been facing in your construction have come to my attention and I have thought of a possible solution to them. _Then, a description of the dampness of the site, the composition of the soil and the procedure to drain the terrain followed. The letter was signed, simply, _Erik Devaux_. No address, no title, no professional qualifications.

Louis exhaled a deep breath and leant back. Only then did he notice that the eyes of all the customers on the café were trained on him. He signalled to the waitress.

"A cognac, Mademoiselle, please. The best kind you've got."

He just had to celebrate.

A week and a half later, Louis stood on the construction site again, overseeing the work. It has progressed enormously. The foundations were almost finished. The workers obeyed his instructions without the incredulity they had displayed just a few days back. Monsieur Boitard was already ordering the materials for the body of the building. Things were going smoothly.

Only one thing nagged at him. Louis hadn't been able to thank his mysterious benefactor. He had looked at the listing of residents in the arrondissement, but he hadn't come across the name of Erik Devaux. Monsieur Devaux had to be an architect or an engineer, so Louis had also looked up his name on the listings published by the _Societé Centrale des Architectes_ and the _Societé des Ingenieurs et Scientifiques_, but his name wasn't in any of them. He had kept an eye on the street when he had been on the site, in case the maid that had delivered the letter went by, but he hadn't seen her. He sighed. It would be impossible to find this elusive. . . A sudden idea stopped his train of thoughts. He went in search of the master builder. Louis could have missed the maid, but Boitard was _always_ on the construction site.

"Of course, Monsieur. She must work in the building on the other side of the street. She comes and goes often. Hadn't you seen her before?"

To think that he had spent so much time wondering about this mysterious man and he must be living across the street! At a brisk pace, Louis crossed the street and entered the foyer. He knocked at the porter's lodge. An old man opened.

"Yes Monsieur? May I be of any service?"

"Yes. I'm looking for Monsieur Erik Devaux, but I have forgotten which his apartment is. Would you happen to know. . . ?"

The old man seemed to consider Louis's question carefully, head tilted to one side. Then, his eyes lighted with a sudden recognition.

"Oh yes. He must be the gentleman that lives on the fifth floor. But he's the brother of a Monsieur Kahn, a very kind foreign gentleman, you see. So his last name. . . And yet his daughter. . . Are you positive the last name is Devaux, Monsieur?"

Louis nodded, baffled by the old man's prattle.

"Then it might be him. . . maybe. It's on the fifth floor, Monsieur."

"Thank you very much."

Louis started to climb the stairs. The porter's hesitancy had baffled him. Wasn't a porter supposed to know the names of the inhabitants of the building he worked in? What if the maid worked at that apartment but had been running an errand for somebody else? He would make a fool of himself coming to ask for somebody who didn't live in the place. But on the other hand, this was his only chance to find Monsieur Devaux. He could always question the maid. With a new resolve, he climbed the last stretch of stairs and knocked at the front door.

There was an extremely long pause and, precisely when he was about to knock again, he heard steps coming down the hall. Somebody stopped behind the entrance door. Several minutes trickled by, until a harsh voice asked:

"Who is it?"

"Monsieur Louis Menand," answered Louis. Then he cleared his throat, realising his name wouldn't mean a thing to whomever was on the other side of the door. "The architect who's working on the construction across the street."

He wanted to slap himself after that. How ridiculous could he come to sound?

By paying attention and coming close to the door, he could hear harsh whispering. He decided to try again.

"I'm looking for Monsieur Erik Devaux."

A tomblike silence fell over. Louis gave out a huff of exasperation. Well, surely this was a ridiculous situation. They wouldn't even open the door. And precisely at that moment, as if the inhabitants of the apartment had read his mind, it opened a crack. He came face to face with the maid that had given him the letter.

"What do you want, sir?" she inquired with a stony expression.

Louis felt a wave of indignation surge inside him. That she should speak to him like that!

"As I said," he tried to rein himself in, but couldn't avoid the stiffness of his words. "I am looking for Monsieur Devaux. I wanted to _thank _him for his advice."

The maid's arrogant, cool gaze slid away.

"I'm afraid Monsieur Devaux is not in the position to receive you, Monsieur. He is ill and not feeling particularly well today."

She looked up again, and he could read a slightly daring tinge in the green depths of her impassive eyes. Louis faltered, taken aback. An illness explained the hesitancy to open, the reluctance to let him in, even the harshness of the servant.

"Oh, I see. Well. . ." he fumbled in his waistcoat pocket, and at last extracted a visit card from it. "Would you give this to him and transmit him my thanks and best wishes for his recovery?"

She took the card, one hand still behind the door, as if she feared he would push it open.

"Yes, Monsieur. I will."

"Thank you."

He had barely finished uttering the words when the door closed in front of his face. He stared at the polished surface in pure outrage until he acknowledged his staring wouldn't accomplish a thing. He turned around on his heels and went down the stairs. He had done the civilised thing, he told himself. He had said thanks for the help he had got. And if Monsieur Devaux and his maid were too rude to follow the most basic rules of politeness, worst for them.

* * *

The next morning Louis went round the city visiting different architect and engineering firms, renewing his contacts, as he called it. It wasn't easy trying to establish himself as an independent architect, and for now he depended mostly on commissions given to him by larger firms. The building on the Rue St. Jacques was, in fact, the only building which he had designed and was building by himself. He hoped his clients would be satisfied with it and would recommend him to other possible clients. In the meantime, he had to take whatever was cast his way.

He came to his office early in the afternoon, exhausted. He had been walking all morning, and had had too many conversations and too many cups of coffee, but had not secured any new commissions. Well, except the offer he'd got to help inspect a few official buildings. That was not his preferred line of work and, if he had to be sincere, he would have to admit having no experience on the field, but one just couldn't refuse a good offer. And it wasn't as if he'd have a lot to do in the next few weeks, now that everything was going well at his building site.

He first noticed the envelope when he was sitting down by his desk. Somebody must have thrown it with force under the door for it had slid a few metres into the room. That's why he hadn't seen it straightaway. It was at some distance from the place where he usually gathered his post. It was the same kind of white, rigid envelope in which the first letter from Monsieur Devaux had come. He picked it up. Louis's name was on the front of the envelope, but there was no address. The gruff hag must have brought it herself. Louis scoffed and threw it unceremoniously on his desk.

He sat down, put his feet up on the desk and looked out of the window. It was a fine afternoon, indeed. Fit for a walk. He sighed. He _would_ have gone out for a walk, if he wasn't so tired. He tapped on his knee with his fingertips. He hadn't brought the newspaper with him.

Maybe he could have another look at his blueprints. He would make a list of the new materials that had to be bought and would discuss it with Boitard the next morning. Yes, that was a perfectly sound idea. He stood up, took off his jacket and spread the plans on his desk. He had to push several things ―an empty cup, pencils, old invoices and the damn envelope― out of the way. A pencil on one hand, a writing pad on the other, he started calculating the amount and the kinds of materials that they would need in the incoming weeks.

His eyes kept sliding towards the envelope, though. Its whiteness seemed to mock him. At last, he just couldn't stand it any longer. He took the envelope and tore it open unceremoniously, using his index finger.

There was a single sheet of paper enclosed within. It read:

_My fondest greetings, Monsieur Menand. _

_It came to my knowledge you came by my apartment yesterday afternoon. I am truly sorry I was not able to receive your visit. As my maid told you, I suffer from a chronic illness and am in no condition to entertain. I was pleased to know that my modest help was useful to you._

_With the best wishes for the successful completion of your building, _

_Yours truly,_

_Erik Devaux_

_P.S. I'm sorry to be the one to bring you bad news, but the watchman has been smuggling out bricks and other building materials during the night. It would probably be a good idea to go over the inventory with the master builder. E.D._

Louis stared at the note. It was positively bizarre. Not only was it written in an old fashioned, starchy style, but it was also laconic in presenting its apologies. And the postscript was weird. How could Monsieur Devaux have noticed the thefts in the middle of the night? He lived in a fifth floor, for God's sake! And he claimed to be ill!

He could have trouble sleeping, as many other invalids, the logical side of his head argued. And he would surely have a good perspective over the building site. It was, after all, just across the street.

Should he fire the watchman? Wouldn't he make a fool of himself if he did? Should he heed Monsieur Devaux's advice? He hadn't checked on the inventory since they started the construction. It was time to do so, and it would let him find out if there was something missing without blaming anybody first.

* * *

Two days later, Louis found himself standing on the fifth floor landing and knocking again at Monsieur Devaux's door. It was midmorning, the best time of the day for someone that was infirm. It had been the best time of the day for Louis's grandfather. As before, Louis had to wait a considerable length of time before the door opened and he faced the maid's cold stare. He braced himself for the unkind welcome he would get.

"Good morning, Madame."

She eyed him from head to toes, suspiciously, but mumbled a salute. He must have caught her on a good day.

"I would like to know whether Monsieur Devaux would see me for a short. . ."

"He can't," she barked at him before he could finish his sentence.

Louis breathed deeply, as his frustration and anger threatened to take hold of him. He couldn't, _shouldn't_ yell at the witch.

"All right," he said once he had regained possession of himself. "Would you give this to him then?"

He took the letter he had composed the former afternoon out of his pocket and handed it to her. He turned around briskly and headed down the stairs, before she could slam the door on his face again.

The next day, he received another short, overwrought note from Monsieur Devaux, where he expressed his satisfaction at having been of assistance, and his will to help Louis again, if needed. Louis sighed. He supposed it was the best he could get out of the elusive Devaux and his hostile maid.

* * *

**Author's notes: **Thank you Leesainthesky, Sarah, Mominator, M-oquinn, Sue Raven, Moomoo-Sama and Nicole Gruebel for all your reviews! I'm happy to know you all liked Françoise. I hope you liked Monsieur Menand as well! A special thanks to Mereidia for her review in verse. I laughed a lot with it... I hope I could write verse too. 


	23. Chapter 23

* * *

Erik peeped out of the window, at the building across the street. It was advancing at a good pace, now that Messieurs Menand and Boitard had overcome the difficulties with the stability of the terrain and the thefts in the building site. Monsieur Boitard could be harsh and short tempered while dealing with the masons and labourers, but he knew his trade well; Monsieur Menand was young and inexperienced, but he was a good architect. The design he had made for the structure was airy and yet firm. The proportions of the building were elegant and sober. The apartments would be reasonably big and, telling from the space allotted for windows, warm and well lighted. It would make a good place to live in, he thought. They could maybe move to the other side of the street, he mused. Then he chided himself. There was no way he could afford to buy one of those new apartments.

His economies were enough to sustain him and Gracie, to pay the rent and Françoise's salary, but the money he had saved from his time with the Shah-in-Shah and underneath the Opera was not everlasting. He had, in fact, gone over his accounts with Nadir, and had found out that it would be enough to hold their living style for about ten years. Erik didn't expect to live longer, but he didn't want to leave Gracie bereft, and lately he had been wondering how could he start making some money again.

Haunting the Opera House was out of the question, he thought scornfully, and then surprised himself by considering, in earnest, how impossible that thought seemed to him. That he had ever preferred to live in a cellar, away from the sun and the changing seasons; that he had considered himself an animal, or something less than an animal, only safe in its lair; that he had thought extortion and threat and deception his only viable means of human contact; that he had believed life would never be better, no matter how hard he tried, seemed now to him the delusions of a madman. He knew, he had cruel physical reminders of the kind of humiliation, cruelty and rejection that had driven him to lead that sort of existence, but his present life made such a sharp contrast with the one he'd led underneath the Opéra that he recalled those times as if they had been lived by another man.

Erik heard the sound of the front door as it opened. He spun around and opened his arms to gather the rush of energy and motion that was Gracie, still winded from her way back from school.

* * *

Erik stiffened when he heard the knock at his front door. He lifted his eyes from the newspaper. Gracie, who had been doing her homework on the dining table, lifted her pencil from the paper and stared at him, alarmed. Erik smiled at her, wondering at how she had been smitten by his fear of intruders in their home. He made a soothing gesture and silently stood up. He stood by the door to the hall, half hidden by the jamb. Françoise came from the kitchen and glanced at him questioningly. He nodded. She opened the door a crack.

It was Monsieur Menand. Erik heard their strained exchange of niceties with a half smile, and shook his head disbelievingly when the young architect braved Françoise's sternness once again to request seeing him. One could say almost anything about Monsieur Menand but that he was not persistent. Poor fellow. He just couldn't get into his mind that he could not get past Françoise. Erik cringed when he anticipated the slam that would resonate as Françoise closed the door. And then one of Menand's phrases caught his attention.

"I have some blueprints here. I would like to consult with him. . ."

"Impossible, Monsieur." Françoise's words were final.

"Françoise," Erik whispered, almost inaudibly.

With a look of surprise, she turned her head and stared at him.

"Let him in."

Françoise's mouth fell open, her eyes widened in disbelief. Erik would have laughed if he hadn't been so acutely aware of the presence on the landing, behind the door.

"But. . . But Monsieur," she stammered. Then she turned abruptly around and faced the architect.

"Wait here," she instructed, and closed the door.

She turned around, once again her face composed.

"Monsieur, you need not trouble yourself. Monsieur l'Architecte can leave his papers and you can have a look at them and write him a letter," she whispered.

"I will see him, Françoise."

"But. . . But Monsieur, your. . ."

She made a vague gesture with her hand and reddened. She was now staring intently at the floorboards.

Erik kept still for a second. Years ago, any mention of his face would have cast him into a rage, but Françoise's deep embarrassment didn't aggravate him. In fact, her concern for his convenience was rather touching.

"He will not see my face," he said softly. "You didn't see it the first time we talked, did you?"

She shook her head, still looking at the floor.

"Only when you. . . When you stood up, Monsieur."

"There you go," said Erik.

His non sequitur finally made her look up.

"I will _not_ stand up this time," he added with a wink.

Her eyes flashed in understanding, but she was still too troubled to smile.

"Bring me the plaid blanket from my bed," he ordered.

He turned around to face a stunned Gracie. She was gawking at him with the most puzzled expression he had ever seen on her face. Erik couldn't help but snicker.

"We're playing a charade, Gracie. Come on, help me. Close one of the counterpanes," he instructed, with more enthusiasm than he really felt, for her sake.

Erik's curiosity had been stung by the mention of blueprints and another architectural problem to solve. Besides, he knew that facing the obstinate young man would be the only way to get rid of him. But that didn't mean he expected the encounter with joy.

He moved his armchair to an angle where it would keep his face hidden in shadows while Gracie closed the counterpane and drew the curtains. The room was soon darkened and Françoise came in, carrying the blanket and his slippers.

"I thought. . . It would. . ." she stammered.

"Better suited for an invalid than these, aren't they, Françoise?" he helped her, pointing at his polished shoes.

Françoise nodded, apparently relieved. She moved a small table to the side of the armchair and fussed about the room while he changed his shoes and cast the blanket over his knees. When he'd finished, there stood a tea stained cup, his folded newspaper, a bell, a spoon and one of the many flasks of his medicine cabinet on the table. Françoise handed him a couple of pillows which he used to prop himself on a slightly skewed angle. Erik smiled. She was exceedingly good at this. She would have made a great set designer at the Opéra. Françoise gathered his shoes and unceremoniously cast them into a closet down the hall. Then she went to open the door.

Gracie, who had been watching their preparations with a curious, but still alarmed look, stood frozen by the table. Erik beckoned her with a gesture, and she came close.

"Don't worry," he whispered, trying to soothe her. "Everything will be just fine."

She leant on the arm of the chair, closer to him, worry reflected on her eyes. He winked playfully, and then he sensed a presence in the room. He looked up. There in the entrance, straining his eyes to adjust to the twilight, stood Monsieur Menand.

Louis couldn't make out a thing when he was ushered by the maid into the dark sitting room. A fire burned low in the grate, and the heavy curtains let in only the dimmest light. He could barely discern the contours of some furniture. He squinted, feeling exposed, knowing Monsieur Devaux must be there, taking stock of him.

"Good afternoon, Monsieur Menand. Have a seat. Please excuse me if I don't stand up to greet you," an incredibly melodious voice came from the deep recesses of the armchair by the fire.

Louis advanced towards the couch. He spoke to the shadows, in the general direction where the voice had come from.

"Good afternoon, Monsieur Devaux. I'm happy to meet you. . ."

"At last?" the voice from the armchair finished for him.

Louis had to clear his throat to hide his confusion. He busied himself with arranging the scrolls he had brought with him on the coffee table.

"Well, yes," he admitted.

"You'll have to excuse Françoise's rudeness. She's being overprotective, but she means well."

Louis nodded and leant back on the couch. That voice held a trace of warmness that made him a little bit more at ease. He hadn't expected to meet cordiality on his first visit. In fact, he had imagined Monsieur Devaux as a grumpy old man who'd bark at him to leave him alone the moment Louis came into the room.

"This is my daughter, Gracie," continued the voice. "Come on, Gracie, greet our guest."

A girl advanced a step from the shadows and curtsied briefly. Louis took in her beautiful auburn curls, and the soft contour of her face. He bowed his head.

"Pleased to meet you, Mademoiselle."

He was stunned when he met her eyes. They were hostile, giving out an animosity that only children dare to display openly. She leant on the arm of the chair, by the plaid blanket that must be covering Monsieur Devaux's legs. Louis barely swallowed a grin. It seemed that Françoise was not the only protective one around the place. A long, graceful hand rose from the shadows and landed on the shoulder of the little girl.

"Go to your room, Gracie," the voice ordered.

The girl turned slightly towards the occupant of the chair, hesitant. The hand squeezed her shoulder lightly and released her.

"Go, now."

She remained a second longer, and then, half-heartedly, she detached herself from her leaning spot, curtsied again and went out, carefully eyeing Louis the whole time, as if measuring what kind of menace he would pose to her father.

"She's a beautiful little girl," commented Louis politely.

"She is, isn't she?" wondered the voice. "She is my life, Monsieur."

Louis was taken aback by the undercurrent of emotion that ran in those few sentences. He hadn't expected such an open statement on his first visit. But of course the company of his daughter should be one of the few joys of an old, infirm man, confined to the boundaries of his home.

"But you didn't come to discuss the merits of a child with the proud father. Would you like something to drink? Some tea? Or perhaps something stronger? A glass of cognac?"

"Cognac would be fine, thank you."

The hand emerged from the shadows once more and rang a bell that stood on a table by the armchair. Louis noticed the cup, the medicine flask, the folded newspaper. Monsieur Devaux didn't seem to move much from that chair. The maid appeared at the entrance.

"A cognac for Monsieur Menand, Françoise, if you please. Tea for me."

She left. There was a short silence. Louis felt compelled to speak.

"Monsieur, I would like to thank you for the enormous help you gave me."

"I doubt my help was enormous. It was just a couple of pieces of advice from a man who's got plenty of time to meddle in his neighbour's business."

Louis had to smile at that.

"Without you, I wouldn't have been able to get rid of all that water. I wouldn't have completed the building."

"Yes, you would. You're a very competent architect. You just lack some experience."

Louis sighed, accepted the glass the maid gave to him, waited until she had replaced the empty cup on the table with a steaming one and the hand had taken the cup and made it disappear in the shadows. He had a sip of what turned out to be a superb cognac.

"I'm afraid I'm here to draw from your experience again, Monsieur Devaux."

The cup made a soft clunk against the plate.

"Yes?" the voice was now cautious.

"You see, I've got a commission inspecting a project for government buildings. I've got the planes and the quotations for the materials and the work. Something seems amiss, but I really can't place my finger on what's wrong with the project."

Monsieur Devaux shifted slightly on his chair. The springs screeched and the plaid blanket moved a little.

"Do you have the documents with you?"

Louis was surprised at the richness of shades that Monsieur Devaux's voice displayed. Now, besides the cautiousness, there was a certain interest in it.

"Yes. If you would feel like it. . ."

"Please."

Louis leant forward and extended the blueprints over the coffee table.

"There are four buildings. They're supposed to hold offices. . ."

Three quarters of an hour later, Louis was making his way down the stairs, slightly inebriated after his second glass of cognac. He had forced himself to leave after he had finished it, although Monsieur Devaux had offered him a third one. Louis had declined, reminding himself that the man was infirm and that he shouldn't overstay his welcome. Their talk had been interesting and animated. Monsieur Devaux had listened attentively to the explanations about the buildings Louis was inspecting and had bid him to leave the documents, so he could examine them in the morning.

Then they had drifted towards other topics of conversation. Louis had told him about his studies in the faculty, the teachers and the difficulties of establishing himself as an architect. Monsieur Devaux had sympathised. He had also tried to establish himself independently in his days. Unfortunately, he'd been forced to retire early.

Louis had nodded, a bit embarrassed. By then, his eyes had grown accustomed to the dim light in the room, and he had blurrily begun to distinguish Monsieur Devaux's features. Apparently, the right side of his face wasn't moving. Louis had also noticed that his right arm remained still on his lap, and that his body slouched slightly to one side. A stroke, perhaps? Louis remembered his grandfather, who'd survived two years after suffering apoplexy, half of his body paralysed. It had prompted Louis's immediate sympathy for Devaux, who had immediately steered the conversation away from himself.

They had spent quite a long time comparing their favourite modern buildings. Devaux had seemed pleasantly surprised at Louis's praise of the Opéra Populaire, and amused at Louis's critique of the proportions of its façade. He had carefully outweighed Louis's opinions, and when they had differed, he had explained his own preferences rationally, not expecting Louis to agree with him immediately, like the more established architects Louis's had spoken with. Louis had been pleased. Never had an older, so experienced architect taken him and his ideas so seriously.

Louis insisted that Monsieur Devaux take his time with the blueprints. Louis didn't need to give his concept for another two weeks. Besides, he didn't want to pester the reclusive Devaux. He hoped he would get an invitation to come by as a response to his polite gesture, but to his disappointment, Devaux only promised Louis he would hear from him before the end of the week. Louis sighed. Well, he supposed that was the best he could draw out of the man during his first visit. And it was much more than what he had expected.

* * *

**Author's notes: **Thanks for the comments! Glad to know you guys liked Louis!  



	24. Chapter 24

* * *

Nadir was paralysed with shock. Wasn't that the voice of a man coming from the sitting room? Yes, it was. And _that_ other voice was Erik's, conversing with the first voice in. . . By Allah! In _civil_ tones! He jumped when a roar resounded in his ears. 

"Monsieur!"

He stared at the maid. She stood sternly in front of him.

"I said, _may I take your coat?_"

Nadir shrugged out of his coat while he mumbled his apologies, and when he had gathered enough strength on his knees he made his way to the sitting room.

"Ah! There you are," exclaimed Erik, almost jovially. "Monsieur Menand, may I introduce you to my dearest friend, Nadir Kahn?"

Automatically, Nadir extended his hand and shook the hand of a young, stalwart man who was standing by the couch.

"Louis Menand," said the man with a nod. "Pleased to meet you."

"The pleasure is mine, Monsieur."

Nadir was thankful his years as a courtier had trained his mouth to proffer the proper polite remarks while his brain was occupied with a thousand questions.

"Monsieur Menand is the architect who designed the building across the street. He also supervised the works," Erik explained as if it had been the most natural thing for him to introduce acquaintances of his to one another. "Monsieur Kahn was the chief of police for the Shah-in-Shah in Persia. He's now retired. He is a superb chess player, as well. You should play against him one of these days."

Despite all his training to remain impassive at the most unexpected and shocking situations, Nadir's jaw dropped.

"I will be pleased, if you would like to waste your time playing against a mere beginner, Monsieur Kahn," said the architect.

"The pleasure will be mine," answered Nadir, when he regained the use of his facial muscles.

"I was just on my way out, Monsieur Kahn. I'm sorry I cannot stay any longer. Perhaps we will have the chance to speak another day?"

"I'm sure we will."

"Monsieur Devaux, Monsieur Kahn," the young architect bowed formally towards Erik, shook Nadir's hand once again and left the living room.

Nadir stood where he was, staring at Erik, for the first time noticing the plaid blanket and the slippers in the semidarkness of the room. He heard how the architect said good-bye to Françoise and how she closed the door behind him. Erik sprang from his chair with a laugh.

"Don't gawk at me, Daroga," he said. "You, after all, were the one who taught me that to make someone believe one is ill one _has _to play the part well. Where are my shoes, Françoise?"

"Who. . . Who was that, Erik?" stuttered Nadir.

"I _told_ you, Nadir," said Erik with an exaggerated sigh.

Clearly, he was enjoying the Persian's bafflement.

"He's the architect who made the building on the other side of the street. Surely you had noticed there was a construction underway in your many comings and goings."

"But. . . But what. . .?"

"He found himself in a predicament and I helped him out. That's how we came to meet, if that's what you're asking," Erik interrupted, as he gave Françoise the blanket and got his shoes.

He sat back on his armchair to put them on, after he had thrown the couple of pillows that were on it on the couch.

"And _no_, I didn't invite him to come," he added with a smirk. "But he is quite a stubborn fellow. It was impossible to turn him down."

"But. . . Isn't he. . . Isn't it risky to have him here?"

Erik regarded Nadir for a little while, his mirth apparently vanished. He shrugged.

"He hasn't heard about what happened at the Opéra Populaire. And besides, he believes _this_ is my face," he pointed at the leather mask Nadir had commissioned for him some years ago.

"He thinks I had a stroke. You should congratulate the man who made it," Erik's voice held a tinge of sarcasm. "Any more questions, Daroga?"

Nadir nodded. Erik's face tightened.

"Where's Gracie?" Nadir asked as he took a small paper bag out of his pocket.

The visible corner of Erik's mouth quirked upward in a dry smile.

* * *

**Author's notes: **Hi, guys! Thanks for the comments for chapter 23! I'm happy to know you enjoyed Erik's little charade. A short chapter, this time. The next one will be longer. Chibi: Gracie's around ten now... Françoise's been working for Erik about a year.  



	25. Chapter 25

* * *

Louis stared at the note in his hands intently. He read it for the seventh or eighth time. Then he threw it on his desk, tiredly. It seemed to him that the only thing he had done lately was to follow the suggestions and instructions from these letters. He pinched the bridge of his nose and leant back on his chair. He had never thought that establishing a firm would be such a gruelling task. 

Business was doing fine. After about a year of struggling, they had succeeded in forming a working team of masons and labourers who were careful and dedicated in their work. They worked on as many commissions as they possibly could at a time, and there were always one or two waiting for their attention. They weren't making a fortune, but money was coming in steadily. There had been enough of it to rent ample offices in a fancy district and to hire a secretary who took care of bookkeeping, correspondence and established the appointments with clients and contractors. But having to cope with all the engagements, supervising the constructions and dealing with Erik's inexhaustible energy and constant stream of new ideas was taking its toll on Louis. Louis huffed when he remembered he had once considered Erik to be an old and helpless invalid.

In the past two years he had learnt that one could never take anything pertaining Erik at face value. First, he had discovered that though Erik was older than he, he was anything but an aged man. Louis still had to figure out a way of finding out exactly how old Erik was ―direct questions had never been the right approach to his elusive partner― but taking into account the few silver strands on his hair and Gracie's age, one could safely guess he was somewhere between his mid thirties and his mid forties.

And then there was the relationship between Erik and the Persian, something that had puzzled Louis from the start. Erik had introduced the Persian as his 'dearest friend'. Where had they met and how had they come to have such a close friendship that the porter of the building in which Erik lived believed them to be brothers? One could never think that the short, stout, olive-skinned Monsieur Kahn was really related to the lean, whitish Erik. And yet the little girl called him 'Uncle Nadir'.

And, of course, the greatest mystery had been Erik's illness, though that was one Louis had partially solved already. Many months after he had first been admitted into the apartment at the Rue St. Jacques, Louis had started to suspect that Monsieur Devaux's ―they had still been on formal terms then― alleged ailment was not the consequence of a stroke, as Louis had first believed. Devaux spoke clearly and articulately, and the movements of his head and torso were well coordinated. Though his right hand remained still on his lap, it was elegant and slender, just as his left. For a long time, it must have been a year or so, Louis had wondered what kind of illness plagued the reclusive Devaux.

And then, one day, Devaux came up with an astounding proposal.

To begin with, he had invited Louis to his apartment. Until then, Louis had gone through the necessary ritual of calling twice or three times before he gained admittance to the ever-darkened sitting room. In the beginning, Louis had only gone through the process when he had something vital to consult with Devaux, and thus had passed three or four months in which they only met a few times. But the amenity of their talks had led Louis to seek Devaux's company more often. He found himself making up different excuses to see the man until one afternoon when Devaux had suggested they played chess. It had happened just when Louis had been hopelessly running out of excuses, and so Devaux himself had given him the reason he needed to visit. They had met regularly afterwards, but although Devaux didn't give any sign of being bored with Louis's company, he never gave signs of wanting his visits either. He would never hint at wanting to meet once again. Louis would usually set up the date of his next visit and wait to see if Devaux agreed or not.

The afternoon of the invitation, he had knocked at Devaux's door with some trepidation. He had been admitted to the sitting room, had sat on the couch and had been offered a glass of cognac. Then Devaux had handed him a newspaper with the announcement of a public contract to construct several buildings for the Mairie. Louis had seen it a few days before and had wished he had the time and the experience to make his own project. If he ever won such a commission, his future as an architect would be secured. But he had dismissed the idea immediately. He was too young, too inexperienced. His drafts would not even compete against those of the most renowned architects unless they were brilliant, and Louis knew his own limits. With a resigned sigh, he had thrown the newspaper on the coffee table and looked at Devaux. The man had stared back.

"Yes?" asked Louis at a loss.

"What do you think of it?" Devaux's left hand had drawn an arch, indicating the newspaper.

"It's an exciting commission," Louis shrugged. "It'll be interesting to see who gets it. Probably Giroux?"

Devaux cocked his head and regarded him for a little while. It started unnerving Louis, who fidgeted with his glass.

"What would you say if I told you I know we can get it?"

Louis's eyebrows shot upwards.

"_We_?"

Devaux nodded and seemed to wait for a reaction, but didn't get any. At last, he indicated a large notebook which was lying on the coffee table.

"I have been making some drafts. Have a look."

Louis leant forward and opened the notebook. He was more and more stunned as he paged through it. The drafts were. . . To say they were brilliant was somewhat of an understatement. Louis had always known Devaux was a competent draftsman despite his alleged handicap, but this was the first time he saw some of his original drawings. Louis looked up at the man in awe.

"I would bet _you _will win the commission, Monsieur."

Devaux smacked his tongue in a slight sound of impatience. His rebuke was sharp.

"I can hardly work on any such thing while confined to my home, Monsieur Menand."

Louis looked down, at a loss for words. He fingered the corner of one of the pages of the sketchbook, uneasily.

"On the other hand, if we. . . If we presented the project together we could. . . We could divide the workload."

Louis looked up, surprised. Devaux, who'd always been extremely articulate, seemed to be battling for words. And then it struck Louis that Devaux was asking him to work with him, in equal terms. There was no way he could match Devaux's skills.

"I would be working for you, Monsieur. I could take care of all the practicalities but as to the designs," Louis's hand waved over the sketchbook in a helpless gesture. "There's nothing I could add to them."

Louis leant back on the couch, in dismay. He had known all along that he wasn't good enough to compete with the most renowned architects in Paris. He had barely managed to keep his firm afloat for over a year now, and that because he accepted any kind of work that was thrown at him. He had hoped he was a good architect of the average sort, but Devaux's designs were a cruel reminder of his shortcomings. He looked at the cognac glass wistfully. He needed a sip of alcohol, but it stood on the coffee table, and it seemed as distant and impossible to reach as his dreams of becoming a respected professional. Then a low, cackling sound caught his attention. Devaux was chuckling. Louis's self esteem was ruffled. Was the man laughing at him now?

"There's a lot more to an architect's work than drawing beautiful buildings, Monsieur Menand. Dealing with suppliers, contacting clients and contractors, making decisions on the site. . . All those things are as important as designing the buildings," Devaux seemed to have regained the use of his speech all of a sudden.

"They are but menial tasks, Monsieur Devaux, secondary to the creative work," huffed Louis.

"Oh, but they are _not _secondary at all. Of all people I would know that."

That statement piqued Louis curiosity. He regarded Devaux. Devaux seemed pleased with having got Louis's attention so completely. He leant forward a little bit and lowered the tone of his voice.

"You see, _those_ were the tasks I failed at when I tried to establish myself, Monsieur Menand. I know how essential they are. Besides," he continued after a heartbeat, leaning back again. "I think you esteem yourself too little. There are a lot of things to correct in those designs. And plenty of suggestions you can make about them."

Louis gave out a soft snort as he shook his head.

"There's nothing I can improve in your work," he protested.

"Of course you can. It wouldn't be the first time you've criticised it."

Louis's forehead furrowed. Criticise Devaux's work? He'd never done anything like that!

Devaux breathed out sharply, in what seemed a curt grin.

"You have commented on one of my buildings more than once. And your critiques have been most enlightening."

Louis gawked at the man.

"Your. . . Your buildings?"

Devaux chuckled and nodded, amused.

"But. . . Which. . . When. . .?"

"Oh, allow me to keep that as a portion of mystery, Monsieur Menand. Would you like to work with me on this? We will probably not win the commission anyway."

Louis was insulted by that.

"Of course we will. With _these_ designs," he stated, pointing at the notebook. "Of course we will."

Devaux roared in laughter, and Louis was taken aback by the rich quality of his mirth. He then realised he'd been persuaded without even noticing. He burst out in laughter himself.

Louis shook his head, amused, when he remembered those first days of their partnership. They had worked steadily and feverishly on the project. Never had Louis taken so many pains over any other job. Never had he had such an observant and sharp working partner. Devaux went over every detail with an obsessive care, poring over the blueprints, the estimates for the materials and the work. He discussed every step of the process with Louis. They even went over the details of the interview with the committee that would evaluate the project, the interview in which they would be solely represented by Louis. As the day in which the results would be published approached, Devaux seemed to grow more and more apprehensive. And the morning when Louis, out of breath after having run up the five floors to Devaux's apartment, announced to him that they had got the commission, he almost jumped out of his armchair in joy.

They worked steadily in the coming weeks, facing the problems they encountered, considering every solution from different points of view, finding a comfortable working rhythm. That first project had laid the foundations of a working relationship that was to develop and flourish further on. By the time they finished the government buildings, they were already calling each other by first name, and Erik had discarded the plaid blanket and the slippers. Louis was by then perfectly aware of the fact that Erik wore a mask and that he had been feigning an illness to conceal it. It stroke Louis as odd that somebody wanted to conceal an object normally used to hide something else, but it had never come up in their conversations.

Louis had noticed the way in which Erik shrunk from direct light, the manner in which he often angled his face away to hide the mask. Louis had decided never to mention it unless Erik spoke about it first. It had evidently forced Erik to retire into his apartment, had prevented him from developing a successful career and had hindered his contact with others. So Louis was determined not to let it stand in the way of what he thought could become a partnership. And he was proven correct in his decision.

* * *

A month after they had concluded their first project, several weeks after Louis had proposed Erik to turn his firm into _Devaux & Menand, Architects_, a couple of days after Erik had finally acquiesced, Louis had descended the stairs from Erik's apartment to bump into Monsieur Kahn in the foyer.

"Monsieur Menand, I would like a word with you," the Persian stated, in a tone of voice as definite and indisputable as Erik's when he called out a checkmate.

He led Louis to a nearby café, and after ordering their drinks and making some petty conversation, he attacked the matter.

"Erik has told me you are going to start an architectural firm together."

He nodded dubitatively at Louis's affirmative answer.

"How exactly does one start a firm here in France? You see, Monsieur, I am not familiar with the legal procedures in this country."

"Well, Monsieur Kahn, it varies a little bit depending on the size of the firm and the conditions of the partners. If one of the partners, for example. . ." started Louis, who had researched the matter not that long ago.

"Yes, yes, but in your case, what are the requirements?"

"In my case?"

"Yours and Erik's."

"Then it's really simple. I will have to make a legal statement of my willing to have a partnership with Monsieur Devaux. You see, because I have a previous firm myself, we'll have to turn it into one where Erik figures as a partner. Change its name. Then my attorney will make a draft of a partnership contract and if Erik agrees we'll sign it. It'll have to be legalised by a notary and then inscribed in the. . ."

"And how long will Erik have to study this contract?"

Louis lifted an eyebrow. What was Monsieur Kahn getting at? At first, Louis had thought he had only been asking out of mere curiosity.

"He'll have as long as he wants. He can hire an attorney to study it if he prefers."

Monsieur Kahn nodded again in his slow, reflexive way.

"I see."

After a heartbeat he added:

"And the legalising process. . . You said the contract has to be brought to a notary?"

"It has to be signed in front of a notary. And a witness."

"Have you talked to Erik about that?"

"No," Louis admitted. "But surely he knows about the process, doesn't he?"

"Erik has been secluded in his home for quite some time, Monsieur Menand. I have been representing him in legal matters for years."

Louis was annoyed by this. If the Persian was representing Erik, why weren't they having this conversation in Erik's presence? And why hadn't Erik told Louis anything about it?

"I didn't know you were representing him in this matter, Monsieur Kahn," he deadpanned.

"I'm not."

Louis rose.

"Then I don't think we have anything. . ."

A gentle but firm hand on his forearm stopped him.

"Please, Monsieur Menand. I'm acting in Erik's best interest."

Louis watched the Persian evenly, refusing to yield, trying to gauge the amount of truth in the man's words. The Daroga met his eyes and held his stare, with the tranquillity of a man with a clean conscience. At last, Louis sat again.

The Persian had a sip of his coffee. Louis was irritated with his calmness. He decided to attack the matter directly, even if it meant abandoning politeness.

"What are you implying, Monsieur Kahn? Do you think I'm going to defraud Erik? To take advantage of him?"

The Persian lifted his eyebrows.

"No."

Louis breathed in, more calmly.

"But, Monsieur Menand, please understand," continued Nadir. "I've seen people. . . How do you say it? Betray Erik more than once in his life."

Louis opened his mouth to protest, but was stopped by an imperious gesture.

"No, please, let me finish. I've seen him lose everything more than once. I've seen him ruined, his home destroyed, chased like an animal, abandoned by those he had confided in. And yet. . . And yet he has found it in himself to start again, to move on, even to _trust_ people once again. You can't possibly fathom what kind of gift, what kind of honour it is to receive Erik's trust, Monsieur Menand."

The force of emotion contained in the Persian's words was such that it stunned Louis to silence. At last, he rubbed his face uncomfortably.

"Believe me, Monsieur Kahn. I'd be the one who would lose the most if our partnership dissolved. The firm would not survive without Erik's talents."

The Persian smiled.

"I know. I've seen him work in the past."

Louis forgot his aggravation and discomfort in a second.

"Have you? When?"

"Ah, many years ago," answered Nadir. "Hasn't he told you about the palace he built for the Shah-in-Shah?"

Louis shook his head.

"Ah. Well, then I suppose I mustn't. . ."

"No, _please_," Louis interrupted him. "Erik is too modest, and I'm eager to learn more about his past works. Would you describe it for me?"

"Oh," Nadir said, containing his grin at the avidness in the eyes of the young architect, as bright as Gracie's at the promise of sweets.

"I guess a brief description won't do any harm," he continued after a climatic pause. "You see, the palace was built. . ."

Ten minutes later, the mood of the conversation had changed drastically. The tension had completely vanished. They were chatting in very amiable terms and Nadir thought it appropriate to steer the talk back to where he had originally intended.

"Erik will not go to a notary's office. To any office, for that matter," he remarked casually.

"I know," answered Louis. "A notary would come to Erik's apartment to legalise his signature."

And after a heartbeat, he added:

"He can choose the notary himself, as well."

Louis didn't know what had prompted him to say that, but he was pleased when Nadir nodded, apparently relieved.

Louis smiled. At the time, he had sensed that the Persian was going through all that trouble out of a sense of protectiveness, the same kind of protectiveness that had led Françoise to slam the door of Erik's apartment to all the people that tried to pry in. But he hadn't had any clue as to how far that protectiveness stretched.

The Persian had convinced Erik to hire an attorney to study the contract, and had contacted a notary himself. He had also signed as witness, unwilling to let anybody else into Erik's apartment. Later on, Louis had found out that the Persian had even researched into his own past. A certain André Legrand, who turned out to be a private detective, had asked for references at the university and the _Societé Centrale des Architectes_. He had also interviewed some of Louis's former classmates, and all of the contractors he had worked with. Louis had been irritated at the time. It was completely far-fetched and quite rude that the Persian thought it necessary to meddle into Louis's private life.

However, Louis had decided not to mention the matter to Erik. Their partnership had just been budding and Louis had the strong feeling that Erik would cower back at the slightest sign of trouble, just like Louis's grandfather had shied human contact and locked himself in his room after his stroke.

Louis sighed and stretched his tired legs. He put his heels on his desk and leant back. He contemplated the ample, well lit room and remembered the day he had finally convinced Erik to go and have a look at _their _offices. It had taken him over three months to do so. As far as Louis knew, Erik never left the apartment. Louis understood Erik's fear of other people's stares after having experienced his grandfather's embarrassment at his own illness, so it had come as a surprise when Erik acquiesced after only some months of coaxing. The visit itself, which had taken place late in the evening when everybody but the night guard had left the building, had been a bit uneasy. Erik had not shown the delight Louis had expected at seeing the copper plaque at the entrance door that announced that those were the quarters of _Devaux & Menand, Architects_. Nor had he been particularly impressed by the size and disposition of the offices. He had uttered some polite expressions of admiration and then was absorbed by the blueprints displayed on Louis's desk, the latest copies of their current project. They had spent the next two hours discussing the building, just as they would have done in Erik's sitting room. Louis guessed that was an encouraging proof of Erik's confidence that he could relax in a space so foreign to him, but he was a little disappointed. He had expected a more enthusiastic reaction.

That first outing had, however, opened the door to another weird, albeit gratifying and necessary business practice: their visits to building sites during the night. Whenever there was need to recognise the progress of the works, they would agree the day and the hour; Louis would hire a cab and wait at the corner of Erik's street for him. Sometimes Erik would come alone; at weekends he would take Gracie with him. Louis would drop a generous tip on the watchman's hand and they would tour the site. Erik was as obsessive with the building process itself as he was with the drawing of blueprints, and thus they would spend a good part of the night inspecting and checking, discussing what had been done until then and trying to find solutions to whatever problems they encountered. Then Erik would often invite Louis over for a bite and a glass of cognac at his apartment. Louis would usually arrive to his own apartment with the first lights of dawn.

No wonder he couldn't keep up with the working rhythm, Louis mused as he tipped his head to one side to relieve his taut muscles. There was a tap at the door.

"Yes?"

Mademoiselle Renaud's head appeared at the door.

"Monsieur, Françoise has just brought this."

She showed him one of Erik's envelopes. Louis rubbed his temples and shut his eyes tight. Jesus. Not _another one_.

"Would you. . . Should I. . .?"

"No, Mademoiselle. I'll read it. Thank you," replied Louis.

She gave him the envelope.

"Would you like a cup of coffee?"

Louis smiled.

"Yes, Mademoiselle. Coffee would be just fine."

He ripped the envelope open. His burst of laughter made Mademoiselle Renaud freeze on her tracks.

The note was two lines long. It read:

_You've looked exhausted as of lately. Why don't you hire an assistant to take care of the contractors?_

_E._

_

* * *

_


	26. Chapter 26

* * *

"Papa, if…" 

Erik sighed heavily and laid down the butter knife on his plate, steeling himself against whatever would come next. He had come to fear some of Gracie's questions, especially those that started with: "Papa, if. . .?" Those usually ended up in Gracie getting her own way, no matter how recalcitrant he'd been in pledging to her wishes: "Papa, if it was dark enough, would you come out to the balcony to watch the fireworks the Mairie has planned for the Bastille Day?" "Papa, if we had enough money to travel abroad during the summer, where would you like to go?" "Papa, if I promised to keep them in the sitting room, could I invite some friends over for the afternoon?" "Papa, if you remembered the date of your birthday, how would you like to celebrate it?"

He looked at his daughter, and couldn't stop smiling at the wide-eyed, sweet innocence that stared back at him.

"Yes?" He ventured, though he knew that word would prove his undoing.

"If. . ." she started, and hesitated again.

What she was about to ask had to be something particularly unpleasant, for she seemed to be treading more carefully than usual.

"If you could go to a concert again, Papa, what would you like to listen to?"

Erik's back straightened like a rod. So that was it. Music. It had been a sore subject among the two of them for some time now, since Gracie had started insisting on having him play 'serious' pieces as opposed to simple cheerful tunes, the folk ballads and lullabies or the musical exercises by more renowned composers that had been his permanent repertoire during the last eight years or so. He had played more 'serious' pieces for her, he had reminded her. The lighter pieces by Mozart and the piano studies by Bach had been part of their music lessons. But no, Gracie wanted something else now.

She had heard the name of Beethoven somewhere, and had asked him to play something by the German composer. Erik had refused, since Beethoven's music had always stirred the deepest emotions in him. She then had started complaining he wouldn't play real music for her, until he'd exploded and blurted out one of the crude facts about his past which he always regretted having mentioned. She was only a child, and he shouldn't burden her with the pain and the darkness that had seared him. After his outburst, she had not touched the subject in many months, and Erik had thought she had forgotten about it. He should have known better. His eyes darted towards the window, away from her.

"I don't think I would go to a concert even if I could, Gracie," he whispered.

Her question was as soft as his words.

"Why not?"

He couldn't do this. He couldn't explain to her, although he had vowed, from the start, to answer all of her questions with the truth. And then she grasped his hand. He stared at their hands on the table, her little one covering but a small portion of his, and yet offering comfort and reassurance. She often did that. She touched him and held him and kissed him as if. . . As if she had never seen what was behind the mask, as if she didn't know he was a hideous creature. And every time she did it, it was a miracle. Not in his wildest dreams had he ever imagined that repeated human touch could be so. . . warm, so caring, so reassuring.

Years ago, he had wondered if he would ever get accustomed to it, if the exhilarating joy of knowing she cared for him would wither with time. It had never faded, and he treasured that knowledge as his most precious possession. He was willing to do anything to keep her love. Even to face his inner demons. He struggled to find the words.

"Because music stirs feelings. It brings them alive, Gracie. Emotions like sadness, longing," he paused. "Love. . . They are expressed and strengthened through music. There was a time. . ."

Erik bit his lip and closed his eyes, angry at himself. He should have stopped after his third sentence, instead of trailing back to the past. The past was an area of heartache and despair.

"Papa?" Gracie's voice was soft, encouraging.

Erik drew a deep breath.

"There was a time when I couldn't. . ."

He grimaced and continued, trying to phrase it simply.

"There was no one, Gracie. So I listened to music and I played. . . and composed."

She squeezed his hand and tried to make him look at her, but he wouldn't meet her eyes. She then stood up and went round the table.

"May I sit on your lap, Papa?"

Erik had to smile at that. She knew that he would never deny her that. He pushed his chair back. She settled down on his lap, her head leaning on his shoulder. He caressed her curls.

"You're getting too big for this," he remarked softly.

She didn't answer. Instead, she put a hand on his chest, right over his heart.

"You should let yourself feel, Papa," she stated, very seriously. "You are alive."

* * *

A month later, on the day Gracie had appointed as his birthday, he found himself seated on his armchair, which had been positioned in such a way that his face remained in the shadows, in front of four serious gentlemen which he had never met before.

Erik fought hard the impulse to bolt out of the room, reminding himself that he had to relax and breathe evenly, for if Gracie had gone to such lengths to give him a special birthday present, he couldn't let his terrors rule over him. He told himself this would soon be over. It would last an hour or so, and afterwards there would come a special dinner with Gracie, Nadir and Louis, something he was accustomed to, something he had learned to enjoy, something he already looked forward to.

Besides, the four gentlemen, stiff in their evening suits and starched collars, squinting in the half-light and trying to accommodate themselves in the chairs from the dining room, seemed almost as uneasy and uncomfortable as Erik himself. When they finished tuning their instruments, the first violin turned to him and bowed his head. It took Erik a couple of seconds to understand that the man was asking him permission to start playing.

"Please, gentlemen," he said, when his politeness finally burst forth.

The first violin turned to his comrades. There was a moment's silence, and then the music started.

Erik heard his own sharp intake of breath as he recognized the first notes of Schubert's "Death and the Maiden". The music came as a shock, an overwhelming wave of beauty. The sounds flowed and stirred the very core of his being. They burst on him in their half-forgotten splendour, filling his soul with the long echoes of beauty. How had he managed to survive without it for such a long time?

The first movement was over in the blink of an eye. When the four men stopped playing and one of them cleared his throat, Erik finally took in his surroundings. He cast a look at his left, where Gracie was sitting in a low stool. He met her warm brown eyes. She smiled at him, and extended her hand. He smiled in turn, and took it.

The musicians moved on to the next movement. He held her slight fingers for the rest of the concert, reassured with the touch, immersed in the sounds he had thought forever denied to him.

* * *

**Author's notes: **Thanks so much for the long, detailed reviews I got for chapter 25! It was great to know what you thought about the chapter, guys. This one was a short one... sorry. The next one will be longer.  



	27. Chapter 27

* * *

"You'll just love it, my dear. The house is perhaps not as big as some other houses in the area, you know. The Guiscards, they do have a bigger house. You'll see it when we come to visit. But our house is more airy, and more cheerful, and there will be space enough for all of us. And then there's the orchard, isn't it, Mama? It is so lovely, full of quiet and secluded spots. Ah it is so romantic, with the branches of the trees hanging and all the moss, and the low walls! I am sure you will like it of all things. And then there is. . ." 

Gracie sighed inwardly. She smiled and nodded while she tried to remember how exactly had she come to consent to this journey after having declined so many times. It had been Papa, of course. If he hadn't had such a ridiculous conscience that made him feel guilty for not being able to take her away during the summer, he wouldn't have felt compelled to push her to accept Lucille's invitation. And if he hadn't been so irrationally stubborn, she would have found a way to convince him that she would be perfectly happy in Paris. But he could be so obsessed with her well being at times. . .

It was not that Gracie didn't like Lucille. She was one of her good friends from school, and though she was prone to chatting, she was also kind and good-humoured. Lucille's family, one big tribe of grinning, chattering, sparkling-eyed and rosy-cheeked individuals, were also very kind to Gracie. Lucille's mother would often invite Gracie for supper, and would insist on stuffing her as if she was a goose. They all had talked so much about their house in Normandy and had invited her so many times, that Gracie felt it would be terribly rude of her to decline one more time. But at the same time, she suspected that if she spent three full weeks among the Calmettes she would simply go insane.

She had told that to Papa when he had insisted that her leaving with them was the only way she would get a real vacation this year. He had too much work on his hands and there was no way he could get away, not even for a weekend. Louis had worked continuously the whole year and he deserved to have some rest, and Monsieur Lavalle, the assistant, helpful as he was, couldn't take charge of the firm. Nadir was not going out of town for the summer. The little summerhouse by the Mediterranean had already been rented.

Gracie couldn't understand why he thought it was essential that she travelled during the summer, and had resisted his arguments with all her might, but then Françoise had accidentally alluded to something that had made her change her mind. In the kitchen, one evening, she had told Gracie that she believed Monsieur Devaux came from Normandy. She was sure he understood her patois, for she had caught him smiling knowingly when he heard her grumbling in her native tongue. And once she had heard him humming one of the popular ballads she had learnt as a child. Gracie had first dismissed Françoise's conjectures as absurd, but the more she had thought about it, the more probable it seemed. Papa had talked about the region where the house of the Calmettes was as if he had known it himself. Of course that didn't mean a thing, since he had travelled all over France in the past, but then a commentary about how lovely the landscape was at sunset, coupled with a reference to Sasha had put the pieces of the puzzle together.

He had told her about the dog, his childhood companion. The dog had never been present in the stories he told about gypsies and their camps, so Gracie had guessed something must have happened to it before Papa fled from his childhood home. If the dog was present in Normandy, then Normandy had to be his place of birth. And Gracie had so wanted to see the region where Papa had been born. Anything about his past had such an alluring appeal for her. Trying to put together the loose pieces, learning more about them, had become her obsession. Of course, he couldn't know about it, so she usually prodded him gently whenever he was in a good mood, stored in her memory the references he blurted out whenever he was enraged, pricked up her ears for hidden allusions in his conversations with Uncle Nadir, and questioned Darius and Uncle Nadir relentlessly. In that way she had been able to painstakingly reconstruct most of the significant parts of his past, although there were many areas that remained an alluring mystery.

"Gracie? Dear? Oh, Mama, look, she's daydreaming again! How charming!"

Lucille, by her side, poked her with her elbow and grinned. Gracie blushed and looked out of the window of the coach. Luckily, Madame Calmette came to her rescue.

"Don't be rude, Lucille. Gracie must be tired. It's been a long trip, hasn't it, my dear?" She squeezed Gracie's hand affectionately. "And this heat makes it even more exhausting. Doesn't it?"

Gracie nodded.

"Don't worry. We'll get there in no time and you'll be able to change and have some rest before lunch. Then we'll spend the afternoon in the veranda. It's so cool there. And then we'll have a quiet evening. Maybe with one or two guests. Thank God Michel will not arrive until Friday. He's such a tornado. He wouldn't leave you girls a moment of peace. Marguerite and Pierre are already there, with their nanny, but you girls won't have to concern yourselves with them. Your only duty is to enjoy yourselves."

"But Madame, we'll surely be able to help. . ."

"No, no, I won't hear a word of it. If you want to play with the little ones, it will be all right. But otherwise, you are here to celebrate that you finished your studies successfully. You are grown-ups now. Sixteen years old. Oh my God. Time just flies away, doesn't it? I can still remember when you started school, Gracie, as if it was yesterday. Such a quiet and shy girl you were."

Madame Calmette sighed and wiped the corner of her eye with her handkerchief. Gracie shot an alarmed look at Lucille. Lucille's mother was going down the path of nostalgia, one she was really happy to follow, and now it would be extremely difficult to make her drop the subject. Lucille winked and wrinkled her nose. She had obviously devised some kind of stratagem to deflect her mother's attention from sentimentality.

"Look, Gracie, we're almost there! That is the house! Isn't it beautiful?"

Gracie looked out of the window and saw a large grey house, its façade covered in vine and its wide windows open. It wasn't small by any standards. It was certainly well proportioned and the vine gave it a wild look. She didn't have to fake her enthusiasm at all.

"It is lovely!" she exclaimed as the cab came to a stop and Lucille hopped out. She quickly followed.

* * *

That afternoon, at the veranda, Madame Calmette took it as her own personal responsibility to describe the neighbours to Gracie.

"There are the Guiscards, you know. They are the most important family in the surroundings. They are very exclusive people. We'll meet them some day, when Michel is here. They have a son, of about Michel's age. He is going to the military academy, and looks quite handsome in his uniform. Doesn't he, Lucille?" she asked casting a knowing look at his daughter.

Lucille blushed, and Gracie tried not to smile. Gracie had heard, many times, how good the young Pierre Guiscard looked in his uniform.

"And then there are the Delbauves. They are so nice people. Middle aged, two daughters, Anette and Adéle. And then. . ."

Gracie let her mind wander a little, taking in the beautiful colours of the evening sky. Papa had been right. Summer sunsets here in Normandy were glorious. She wondered how the sunset would look from the advantage point of the nearby hills. She would have to convince Lucille to come with her in a walk tomorrow evening.

"Well, I guess those are all of them. As you can see, it's not a long list, but it is a merry society, I can tell you. There's nothing in Paris that we would envy. We even have our own resident diva!"

Those words caught Gracie's attention immediately. Madame Calmette chuckled.

"I knew you would be interested in that! Didn't I tell you, Lucille, Gracie would be happy to know there was somebody that shared her musical interests here? But of course, this little brat wanted to keep it as a surprise."

Lucille smiled guiltily, her cheeks reddening.

"It's because she sings so lovely, mother!" she exclaimed. "I know it is going to be a pleasure for you to have someone so talented accompanying you, Gracie. And what a pleasure it will be for us, as well. We will be able to have _real_ musical soirees the whole season. It will be quite delightful!"

"Now, now, you will have to rein in your desire to listen to Gracie play. She has come here to enjoy herself."

"Oh, Mama, but she will just _love _making music with Mademoiselle Daaé!"

At the name, Gracie felt the floor sway under her feet. Surely she had heard wrong.

"Made. . . Mademoiselle Daaé?" she stuttered. "Christine Daaé?"

"The one and only," beamed Lucille. "I _knew_ you would be flabbergasted."

Flabbergasted was not the right word. Shocked, sickened, revolted would all be better choices. A cold sweat covered Gracie's forehead and she was grateful Lucille had just chosen to chatter on, captivating her mother's attention. Otherwise, they would have noticed her uneasiness.

". . . And she still has this lovely voice, although she only sings in the Church now. And of course, she also sings when she gives music lessons. She has been living from music lessons ever since she came to this little town. It was shortly after the terrible affair at the Opéra Populaire, wasn't it, mama?"

"Yes, it was. But dear, Gracie's maybe not familiar with what happened at the Opéra."

"Oh, no, Mama. She is. Aren't you, Gracie?"

Gracie managed to nod.

"I leant her _The Phantom of the Opera_," Lucille announced proudly. "I stole Michel's copy."

"But surely you don't believe all the nonsense in that book? A freak living underneath the Opéra?"

Madame Calmette's voice reached a squeaking note. Gracie flinched. The words hurt as if she'd been stabbed.

"Dear Lucille. See what you get with your nonsense! You've scared our little guest."

Madame Calmette stood up impulsively and took Gracie's hands.

"You must not believe that nonsense, my dear. All those things this Leroux wrote are but follies to sell his books and scare young souls. You must not think about it anymore. What do you say, shall we get ready for the evening? We have several guests arriving at eight. Mademoiselle Daaé is one of them, and she is a beautiful soul, I tell you. I know you'll get along very well. Come now,"

She patted Gracie's hand and urged her to stand up.

"Lucille's been waiting to show you her new toilette. You shall get ready together. Shan't you, Lucille?"

"Yes Mama. Come Gracie. Our bedrooms are one beside the other, and Jean must have already brought our suitcases upstairs. I have an idea for your coiffure. . ."

With those words, Lucille grabbed Gracie's hand and led her into the house.

* * *

**Author's notes: **In Leroux's book, he wrote that the events took place some thirty years previous to his writing of the book. He also stated that most people believed that the count had been murdered by his brother and that the viscount and his wife had run away to escape the law… So this chapter is not exactly canonical. What can I say? I took some liberties for the sake of the story. 


	28. Chapter 28

* * *

"I can't go downstairs, Lucille. I tell you I _can't_!" hissed Gracie on the hall, grabbing the banister with all her might. 

"Oh, don't be foolish, Gracie. I know you are shy, but you'll feel at home in no time. There are but _three _guests this evening! Papa will talk business the _whole _evening with Monsieur Delbauve and Mama will be commenting the latest gossip with his wife. And Michel's not here to tease us! Everything will be just fine."

"Shhh! Keep your voice down!" said Gracie between clenched teeth, afraid Madame Calmette would hear them.

But it was too late.

"Lucille? Gracie? Come down so I can introduce you to our guests! You see, my daughter has brought one of her schoolmates, a lovely, lovely girl. . ."

Madame Calmette's voice faded as she returned to the sitting room. Lucille's hands pried Gracie's fingers from the banister and Gracie found herself pulled down the stairs. She breathed in deeply as Lucille opened the double doors to the sitting room, trying to steel herself for the encounter.

"Ah, here they are! Come, come in, my dears," Madame Calmette urged them forward with a wave of her hand. "My dear Monsieur and Madame Delbauve, my dear Mademoiselle Daaé, I'm sure you all remember my Lucille, although she has grown up a little since last year."

Lucille curtsied towards the middle-aged couple that was sitting on the couch, and then towards a woman, sitting on one chair to the side.

"And this is her schoolmate, Gracie Devaux."

Gracie curtsied towards the couple and then towards the woman. Gracie studied her for a second, taking in the chestnut hair, the wide blue eyes, the paleness of her complexion. Gracie kept her face expressionless, but inwardly she was seething with anger. This was the woman that had hurt Papa so, the one that had led him to believe that his longing, his natural _need_ to be loved was but a loathing fantasy, that he was nothing but a hideous creature, unworthy of human affection. Oh yes, she was pretty. Disgustingly so. It turned Gracie's stomach to think how pretty she was, how she had taunted him and played with him and discarded him as a used rag. Gracie tried hard not to glare. How had she _dared_ to bask in his music, in his love, when she was not worthy of cleaning the floor he had walked upon?

"You can sit here," added Madame Calmette, pointing at two chairs beside the one Mademoiselle Daaé was occupying. "Gracie, Dear, I'm sure you will be dying to sit beside Mademoiselle Daaé. You see, Mademoiselle, Gracie plays the piano."

Mademoiselle Daaé smiled. Her lovely lips curved upwards, but the smile didn't reach her eyes. Lucille pushed Gracie forward, and Gracie was forced to sit down. She nodded, her sight fixed on the carpet.

"She is also quite shy," commented Madame Calmette. "But I'm sure she is dying to accompany you. She has heard about you, you know. Her father was a patron of the Opéra Populaire."

Gracie's heart sank. She had hoped neither Lucille nor her mother would bring up Papa in the conversation this evening.

Yes?" Mademoiselle Daaé asked politely. "What is his name?"

Now she would have to look up at the woman or she would pass for a dotard with no manners. Gracie lifted her eyes and attempted a smile.

"Oh, you wouldn't remember him, Mademoiselle," she protested. "He was but an obscure patron."

"But you told me he went to every performance, Gracie. And he had his own private box!" Lucille countered.

Gracie cursed inwardly. Why had she ever said that to Lucille? Of course, at the time, it had seemed but an irrelevant piece of information.

"If he went to every performance I'm sure I will remember him," said Mademoiselle Daaé. "I was also an obscure performer in the opera myself. I only starred in two operas, you see."

Gracie cringed at the humbleness in her voice. It was utterly false, she was sure of that.

"Erik Devaux," she answered rapidly, praying Mademoiselle Daaé wouldn't catch the first name. The woman didn't know Papa's last name, and that was a blessing.

"Hmm," Mademoiselle Daaé tipped her head to one side and regarded Gracie pensively. "No, I'm sorry, I don't seem to recall him. You must excuse my horrible memory."

Gracie shrugged.

"It's all right," she mustered, relieved.

"Oh, but I don't think your father was precisely obscure, my dear. You see," said Madame Calmette addressing the whole company, "Monsieur Devaux is an accomplished architect. He's got an independent firm in Paris. What is its name, Gracie?"

"Devaux and Menand," answered Gracie, praying that Monsieur or Madame Delbauve would intervene and draw the conversation away from her father. None of them said a word.

"Yes, have you heard about them? They have been building a number of outstanding edifices in the city."

Fortunately, all of the adults shook their heads.

"No, my dear Madame," said Monsieur Delbauve. "I'm afraid we're too far away to get news. . ."

"It's a shame. They are very impressive, I tell you. And what is more remarkable is that Gracie's father has kept in the business given. . ." Madame Calmette made a pause. "Given the circumstances," she finished somewhat awkwardly.

Gracie cringed again. She knew Madame Calmette had not meant to allude to Papa's reclusion at home; the words had just slipped her mouth.

"What circumstances?" asked Madame Delbauve.

Gracie sighed, and stared at her hands on her lap. Now she would have to bring up the excuse Papa and she had forged over the years.

"My father. . ." she began.

She had told that lie many times without blinking, but it was difficult to go over the story again, knowing she was sitting beside the woman who was responsible for the fact that Papa would be apprehended if he ever tried to lead a normal life. She had unmasked him on the stage, in front of half of the society of Paris. And not only had she made him hide indoors for fear of the police. Even to this day, Papa winced whenever Gracie accidentally brushed his mask. Gracie felt her hatred for this woman grow. Hadn't it been enough to refuse his love? Did she really have to shatter his self-reliance along with his heart?

"My father had a stroke some years ago," she said, as evenly as she could. "He's. . . He stays at home."

Somehow, Gracie couldn't bring herself to finish the story. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw how Madame Calmette traced a line along her body and indicated her right side, while she mouthed the word _paralysed_ to enlighten her guests.

"I'm so sorry," said Mademoiselle Daaé impulsively.

The unexpected undercurrent of concern in her voice surprised Gracie.

"He is a remarkable man," continued Madame Calmette. "He's also a musician and a composer, isn't he, Gracie?"

Gracie blushed and gritted her teeth. Wouldn't Madame Calmette choose to shut up for once?

"You see, he taught Gracie to play the piano, and she's very good at it."

Oh God. This was not going to end well. Gracie tried to stop herself from wringing her fingers.

"Maybe later you'll play a little bit for us?" asked Monsieur Delbauve.

"Oh, yes," intervened Lucille. "And Mademoiselle Daaé _must_ sing!"

That seemed a little bit inappropriate to Madame Calmette.

"Well, that if you'd be so kind, Mademoiselle. Please excuse my daughter's vehemence. She is a big fan of yours. Lucille, you have to ask politely!"

Fortunately Monsieur Calmette chose that precise moment to enter the sitting room. His guests stood up to greet him and Madame Calmette announced they could all proceed to the dining room.

Gracie lagged behind them all. When she was about to cross the threshold, her eyes met Mademoiselle Daaé's. The blue depths were regarding her with something between wonder and disbelief.

* * *

After dinner came the feared musical soiree. Gracie was forced to sit at the piano and she eyed the music sheets that had been left on top of it, while the other guests tried to urge Mademoiselle Daaé to sing. But Mademoiselle refused, and expressed her wish to listen to Gracie play first.

Gracie took one of the music sheets, the score of _Für Elise_ and placed in front of her. Maybe if she played something that was more than known and without much enthusiasm they would get bored and let her be. Maybe then Mademoiselle Daaé would refuse to sing.

She extended her hands over the keyboard.

Lucille's enthusiastic applauses and the polite ones of the rest of the concurrence exploded after she finished. She looked up. Mademoiselle Daaé was not clapping. Her face was a shade paler, and her eyes a bit wider. A void opened in Gracie's stomach. Had the woman recognised her style of playing? That hadn't crossed Gracie's mind before. She wanted to bang her head against the piano for not thinking about it earlier.

"Dear, that was lovely!" exclaimed Madame Calmette. "I'm sorry we don't have too many scores here. I'm afraid most are accompaniment to songs."

She cast a knowing glance at Mademoiselle Daaé.

"But perhaps you could play something else before Mademoiselle sings? You know some pieces by heart, don't you?"

"Oh yes!" Lucille cried suddenly. "Gracie, please, play the Persian lullaby. The one your father taught you. It is so charming! Do you remember it, Mama? Gracie played it once at home."

Oh Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Oh God Almighty! Of all the songs Lucille could have asked for she _had_ to pick up the Persian lullaby! Gracie stared at the white keys in front of her and wished the piano was an enormous beast that would swallow her.

"Yes, yes," chorused her mother. "Play the Persian lullaby, Gracie. Please."

Gracie bit her lower lip so hard she felt she would draw blood out of it. She looked up at the concurrence. All were watching her eagerly. There was no escaping from this. She looked at the keyboard again and breathed in. She started playing.

A cry interrupted her.

"Dear! What is wrong with you?"

Gracie looked up again. Mademoiselle Daaé was slowly leaning to one side on her chair, her face white as a sheet. Suddenly she fell to the floor before Monsieur Delbauve, who had sprung from his chair to aid her, could support her weight. Everybody on the sitting room gathered around her to help. Gracie pushed the piano bench backwards. Her head was light and her legs were wobbly. Everything was spinning around her. Gracie stood up, using the piano as support, but didn't trust her legs to hold her upright if she gave a step forward.

Madame Calmette held Mademoiselle Daaé's head on her lap. Lucille hurried out of the room and came back with a bottle of smelling salts. The salts were put under Mademoiselle Daaé's nose. Mademoiselle sneezed and opened her eyes. She looked around the room and Gracie had a fit of panic. The woman shouldn't see her. Suddenly, having recovered the use of her legs, she darted out of the sitting room, through the foyer and up the stairs. She locked herself in the room appointed to her and fell on the bed, breathing heavily.

* * *

**Author's notes: **Sorry it took me more than a day to update... I didn't mean to leave you hanging from a thread, but real life got in the way... I promise I will put up the next chapter tomorrow, to compensate. 

One hundred and ten reviews! Wow! You guys amaze me! Especially because most of them are lengthy comments which really give me an insight on how is the story unfolding, and how it is to read it. THANK YOU ALLL! Most of you noted the fact that Christine is still Mademoiselle Daae... That will be explained soon enough, just hang on with me a little longer. And some also mentioned the fact that Gracie was older now. I'm happy to know you like her as a teenager as well! Masque de la Mort: Here it was, the chapter about Gracie playing music, although she didn't get to play with Christine. I hope it was up to your expectations! And Chibi Binasu Chan, about Erik's age: You're right, according to the book and the musical, Erik would be almost sixty by now. However, I'm not being entirely canonical on that respect, either. Erik's age was mentioned earlier, when Louis was wondering about it... So he would be just three or four years older than what Louis calculated by now... And how does Gracie know about the Opéra? Well, she has been living with Erik for twelve years. She read the book... She's clever... What can I say?


	29. Chapter 29

* * *

Erik stared at the note in his hand, lifted his eyes and was shocked at the height of the mantle over the fireplace. He shook his head when he realised he must have sat down at some point after reading Gracie's brief letter. He read it again, trying to gauge its precise meaning:

_Dear Papa: _

_Please, Papa, PLEASE send a telegram calling me home. I can't stay here any longer. _

_All my love, _

_Gracie. _

Erik's brow furrowed in preoccupation. It was so unlike Gracie to send such a desperate call for help, after only three days of staying with the Calmette family. She wasn't easily discouraged, and although she might get occasionally overwhelmed in the company of the Calmettes, she would surely find a way to seek some solitude. Something must have happened to her to make her write such a plea. What could have happened?

His hand tightened on the arm of the chair when he thought one of the Calmettes might have insulted her. Erik's ever-lingering fear, that she might be humiliated or looked down upon because of him, reared its ugly head.

He stood up and went to the foyer. He called Françoise, and paced the sitting room restlessly until she finally came.

"Françoise, I need you to go to the post office immediately. You must send a telegram to Gracie."

She curtsied.

"Yes, Monsieur. What does it have to say?"

"Come home immediately. Erik is ill."

Françoise regarded him pensively, and Erik was unnerved. It was a simple message, for pity's sake!

"What's the matter?" he spat.

"Who is supposed to sign it, Monsieur?"

Erik breathed in, finally understanding.

"Monsieur Kahn."

"So. . . Pardon me, Monsieur. I'm not a smart woman. Must it be signed: 'Uncle Nadir'?"

Erik nodded and smiled. Despite what she claimed, Françoise was anything but unintelligent.

"Precisely, Françoise. Precisely."

* * *

Gracie scanned the platform from the advantage point on the highest step of the wagon until the passenger behind her made his protests.

"Excuse me, Mademoiselle, but I want to get off the train."

"Of course," she answered, descending the steps.

The platform was full of people, and she didn't know whether Papa had sent Françoise or Uncle Nadir or Darius to pick her up. She looked at the crowd around her, at the people blending in hugs and kisses and shaking hands. She slowly started to make her way towards the hall of the station, weighed down by her suitcase. Suddenly, she caught eye of Françoise, standing upright, craning her neck, and looking quite bewildered.

Françoise heard her name coming from among the people surrounding her and looked around. She saw Gracie, dragging her suitcase. A smile lit her face.

Gracie dropped the suitcase on the floor as she drowned in Françoise's arms. She hugged Françoise back, laughing, surprised at the welcome. Françoise was not the most expressive woman on earth, and an embrace from her was a rare occurrence.

"Hello, Mademoiselle Gracie. Did you have a good trip?"

"Yes, Françoise. Thank you."

"Let me take that," ordered Françoise grabbing the handle of the suitcase.

Gracie started making her way towards the main hall, but Françoise grabbed her arm and pulled her towards a side exit.

"Monsieur Devaux is waiting in the cab. This way."

She tried not to laugh when Gracie's eyes went round as plates.

"Papa came to the station?" Gracie asked incredulously.

Françoise nodded. Monsieur Devaux had been unbearable since he had got Gracie's letter. He had paced the apartment during the day and during the night, getting no sleep and not letting her get any. He had refused to eat, only downing one cup of tea after the other, until his hands were trembling. Fortunately, the girl had gotten passage on the first train to Paris the next morning. Otherwise they would have both gone crazy with impatience and lack of rest. At two-thirty, exactly half an hour before the arrival of the train, Monsieur Erik had ordered her to go downstairs, flag a cab and indicate the coachman to wait in front of the building until he had come out. Françoise hadn't been surprised at the fact he was determined to brave the streets of Paris in a sunny afternoon, though it had been the first time he'd ever done that. There had been no way he could have remained alone at the apartment. Of course, the crowds at the station had proven too much for him, and he had preferred to wait in the comforting darkness of the vehicle.

Françoise hurried out of the station, and directed Gracie towards the cab. She opened the door and shoved Gracie inside, as she instructed the coachman to put the valise at the back. She then climbed on the seat beside the coachman, ignoring the man's protests. Gracie and Monsieur Devaux needed a little time for themselves, and she was not going to deny that to them.


	30. Chapter 30

Gracie pulled off her gloves and unbuttoned her travelling coat with a sigh of contentment in the dim light of the foyer. She set the gloves on the side table and hung her coat slowly. She stood in front of the mirror and undid the ribbon that held her hat, stalling. Papa had crossed the foyer in two strides and was already waiting for her in the sitting room. She had managed to reassure him somewhat in the cab, by telling him over and over that nobody had insulted her, no one had offended her. She had had a good reason to come back, but it was a long story, and she'd rather speak about it in the quiet of the apartment. And now she would have to face him and give him the explanation he wanted. Lying wouldn't do. She had been so agitated that he would be able to read her like an open book.

She came into the sitting room. Papa was sitting on his armchair. He had unbuttoned his coat and was looking at her questioningly. The openness in his eyes touched her heart. Gracie felt her knees go weak. Why did she have to be the bird of ill omen? Why did she have to be the one to bring him heartache?

"Gracie? What's wrong, love?"

His quiet, concerned whisper was her undoing. She started crying. Immediately, he was beside her, taking her elbow and gently guiding her to his armchair. He made her sit down, knelt beside her, gave her his handkerchief, held her hand and caressed her cheek making hushed, comforting sounds. That was more than Gracie could stand. She clung to him as if to life itself and buried her face on his shoulder. He hugged her, traced slow, gentle circles on her back, and called Françoise. A moment later, when she had calmed down a bit, he was disentangling himself from her arms and offering her a cup of tea, urging her to drink it. Gracie sniffled and hiccupped, took the cup from his hands and had a sip. He remained by her side a little longer, making sure she wasn't going to throw herself at him again, and finally sat on the couch. Gracie dried her eyes and blew her nose in a very unladylike manner.

"I'm sorry, Papa," she mustered when she was able to talk again.

"There's nothing to be sorry for, tot," was his quiet reply.

He didn't say anything else, waiting patiently for her to be ready to tell him.

"I. . ." started Gracie. "I had a very good time at the Calmettes, but. . . They had this guest, Papa, and I just couldn't stay there."

"What? But _you_ were their guest! How could they throw you out? They should. . ."

His eyes were now glaring with barely contained wrath.

"No, Papa," Gracie lifted one hand to appease him. "They didn't throw me out. I didn't want to stay there anymore. You see. . ."

Gracie sighed. There was no way to phrase this tactfully. Better to say it at once then.

"Their guest was Christine Daaé."

She heard his sharp intake of breath and then nothing. Gracie waited a moment, and then she grew alarmed. His face had grown pale and he was still as a statue.

"Papa? Papa?"

He didn't answer. His eyes were glazed, as when he was lost in some painful memory. She darted towards him, sat beside him on the couch, squeezed his hand. He took a deep, shuddering breath. At last, he looked at her, but his eyes were somewhat unfocused. He disentangled his hand from hers and stood up abruptly, went to the mantelpiece and leant against it. His hands grasped the marble until his knuckles went white.

Gracie stood up and laid a hand on his back, trying to assuage him.

"Papa?"

He flinched from her touch.

"Damn it, Gracie!" he snapped in the angriest voice she'd ever heard.

He walked towards the window. With a jerking movement, he threw the curtains aside and opened one of the panes with such a force that the frame crashed against the wooden shutters. Gracie was surprised the window didn't break. Papa stood there, in full view of the whole neighbourhood, taking deep breaths. At last, he rubbed the uncovered part of his forehead. He turned around, head lowered.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have. . . I shouldn't have yelled at you."

His voice was but a raspy whisper.

She gave a step forward, craving his touch, but he raised a hand, effectively stopping her.

"No, my dear. I'm afraid I need. . . some time by myself."

Gracie nodded, shocked by this new, unusual formality. It was even worse than his rudeness. She bit her lip and made her way out of the sitting room. She stopped when she was about to close the door.

"It's all right, Papa," she whispered.

She closed it quietly and leant her forehead against the wood. At last, she was able to unstick herself from the door and went down the hall, towards the kitchen.

It spoke volumes of Erik's consternation that he didn't hear her daughter's words and didn't notice she had paused on the other side of the door after she had closed it. Despite having opened the window, the air in the sitting room was still stuffy. He paced the length of the room, trying to overcome the bout of claustrophobia. He got rid of his coat and cast it on the couch, loosened his cravat and unbuttoned the collar of his shirt. He loosened the cuffs, fighting against the tiny golden cufflinks. One of them fell to the ground and he stepped on it. Cursing, he bent down to pick up the broken cufflink and threw the pieces on the coffee table. He rolled up his sleeves. It was still too warm in the room, he was still suffocating. Nothing seemed to help. By sheer force of will, he stopped his wandering. He leant heavily on the mantelpiece and tried to take deep, controlled breaths. After a while, he drew a trembling hand through his hair.

Erik was stunned at his own inner turmoil. How could Christine's name still, after all these years, cast him so completely into havoc? He forced himself to sit, surprised at the way his hands were shaking.

He looked at the room around him, where most of the good things in his life had happened. The low coffee table, which had held his books and the newspapers he'd commented with Nadir, the chessboard over which they had spent so many hours in companionable silence. The same table which had held the first blueprints Louis had brought for him to study, where there had extended so many of their drafts. The piano, where he had taught Gracie to play, where they had shared so many hours together, enjoying the music they made. The same piano he had started to use to compose again, only a few years ago, battling against blanks in the scores, feeling accomplished when he finally came across the right notes. Work, music, reading, the company of Gracie, the friendship that Louis and Nadir offered. That was his life. His days were full and he shared them with the few people he cared for, and who, he knew, also cared for him. A loving daughter, a couple of good friends. It was all a man ought to ask. The thoughts of what he had lost underneath the Opéra due to madness and desperation were not that painful anymore. He didn't even have to force himself to change their course when he came upon the image of Christine. After so many years of trying to gain some emotional distance, when he thought of her it was abstractly, serenely, as one might think of some imaginary beloved in a book or a picture. So why was it that her name, that insignificant word, upset him so much?

* * *

**Author's notes: **Sorry, another short chapter. I hope the increased update rate compensates for that...

A couple of sentences have been borrowed from Edith Wharton's novel _Age of Innocence_… See if you can guess which?


	31. Chapter 31

* * *

Papa remained in the sitting room the whole afternoon and evening. He called Françoise in once, asked her to bring the cognac decanter and a glass. Then he made something astounding. He shut himself in. Gracie couldn't believe it. The only time he had locked a door and left her on the other side of it had been the morning he and Uncle Nadir had made the moulds for his new masks, after his heart attack. Otherwise he had never locked any doors between them after one of the first nights in their apartment, when she had woken up for a nightmare and pounded at his door, completely terrified of being alone. All through her childhood until Françoise had started working for them, he had left his door open a crack, so he could hear her if she called him or she could crawl into his bed if she woke up during the night. Gracie knew that was the reason why he slept with the mask, and the thought of him enduring such discomfort every night for her sake had melted Gracie's heart when she had begun to understand such things. 

Gracie paced the hall, as quietly as she could, stopping by the door of the sitting room from time to time to listen intently. But there was no sound coming from the other side of the door, and the silence unnerved her. She tried to rationally quell the stifling fear of him having had another heart attack. He must be sitting on his armchair, brooding and drinking, she told herself over and over. But the thought of Papa drinking himself to oblivion was so uncharacteristic of him that it was almost as scary as him getting sick again. Gracie longed to go to him, to hold him and not let him go, but she dared not. He had dismissed her from his presence. He had said he needed time alone. She had to give him some space.

* * *

In the evening, Françoise called her into the kitchen and tried to make her eat something. It wouldn't do to get sick with apprehension, she had told Gracie in a no nonsense manner. If Gracie wasn't well, she wouldn't be able to comfort Monsieur Devaux. Françoise's unquestionable logic had made Gracie swallow mouthful after mouthful of untasty food. Then she had gone to her room, changed her clothes, sat by her desk and tried to read, lay on the bed and tried to rest a little, rose up again and tried to write a letter to Lucille. At ten o'clock, Gracie's nerves were impossibly raw, and she had come to fear something that made her knock on the door to the sitting room and call out to him.

Silence was her only answer. She called again, her voice choked by dread.

After what seemed a lifetime, she heard shuffling as he rose from the armchair. Then the key turned in the lock. She waited, but he didn't open the door. Slowly, hesitantly, she lowered the handle and peeked in.

He was sprawled on the armchair, a goblet in his hand. He beckoned her.

"Come in, tot."

And from the slur of his words and the vagueness of his gesture, she realised that he was drunk indeed.

Erik looked at her for a long time, until she hesitantly made her way into the room and sat on the couch. Through the comforting haze brought up by the cognac he had consumed, he watched as she primly folded her hands on her lap, and couldn't help a half smile when he remembered the first time he had seen her draw the gesture, the first time he'd invited her into the music room, so many years ago.

He was happy that the memory came to him. It was finally something to shake his mind off the image of Christine Daaé's lovely face, pale and streaked with tears, the last time he'd seen her. He huffed when he realised his thoughts had wandered back to Christine. He was such a fool, to have thought that he could forget her, that he could dull the pain, erase the longing. Gracie's voice, coming from what seemed a great distance, shook him from his thoughts.

"Papa?"

"Hmm?"

"You aren't going out, are you?"

The question caught him completely by surprise.

"Of course not. I'm afraid. . . I'm afraid I'm not in any state to be seen in public. . . right now."

He chuckled, amused with his witticism. He leant an elbow on the armchair, cupped his left cheek in his palm and regarded his half filled glass thoughtfully. He had another sip. The liquid warmed his throat on its way down to his stomach.

"Gracie. . ."

"Yes?"

"How did you find out about Mademoiselle Daaé?"

He watched detachedly as she tensed and her hands tightened on her lap. His own question had surprised him. Alcohol was certainly a powerful substance. It had quelled the fear to make his own questions, something he had never dared with Gracie. He had answered all of hers, even when the answers had entailed digging out memories of the past. True, he had never encouraged her to make them and had never started the conversations himself. He had also been aware of the fact that she preferred to tiptoe around sore subjects and he had never helped her to broach them. He had, in fact, been extremely grateful when he'd been able to avoid the darkest episodes of his life. Instead, he had told her as many amusing, colourful anecdotes as he could recall. He had gone back again and again to the few happy moments of his past, so she would gain at least a partial knowledge of him.

"I. . . You call her in your sleep, sometimes," she said.

Erik's eyes widened, but he was surprised to notice that he wasn't as shocked as he would have been if he had been sober. Cognac had blurred the sharp edges of everything around him. It had made the world less distinct and menacing, and it had somehow pulled him out of himself. Now he was regarding curiously both Gracie's and his reactions to their talk, as if he was a third, silent partner in their conversation.

He nodded.

"I see. . ."

And after a beat, he added:

"What else do I say when I'm asleep?"

Her eyes darted away, in embarrassment.

"Not much," she whispered, nervously fingering the locket that hung from her neck, the one he'd given her for her fifteenth birthday.

"Come on, tot. Humour me."

"You only talk about. . . the time in the fair and about her. . . You talk _to _her," she finished quickly.

Erik winced as if struck. So she knew. She knew about the fair. He hurried to have another sip of cognac. It didn't taste as good as before. Its warmness was not as comforting. He balanced the glass on the arm of the chair, rubbed the bottom against the embroidered flowers on the damask.

"How long. . . How long have you known about the fair?"

He swallowed hard, eyes still intent on the bottom of the glass. He wanted to know, but dared not look at her. What must she have thought, to learn that her papa had been treated like. . . No, that he had _led_ the existence of an animal? That he had _become_ a mindless, dirty creature?

Gracie stole a glance in his direction, took in the paleness of his lips, his jaw tightly clenched. The languor of his posture, which she guessed had come from his drunkenness, was gone. Should she tell him the truth? Should she uncover the fact that she had known, from the start, of his fear of being caged? Or should she rather tell him about the pictures she'd seen when she'd been seven, the day she'd learnt why he was in danger of ending in one of those terrible sideshows? Or rather should she begin her tale the day she had finally realised what had caused the scars on his wrists and ankles? The day she had understood, with a tinge of self-regret at the fact that it had taken her so long, why he rarely rolled up his sleeves, why he stiffened, shied away ever so slightly whenever she touched his bare forearms? She decided to make her tale short and chose the last event.

"Since I was eleven."

"Only eleven. . ." he whispered, his voice ragged.

He was still tracing circles on the arm of the chair with the bottom of his glass. After a while he stopped, imposing himself the tight composure he usually reserved for his outings. Gracie watched, as he slowly finished the cognac and leant forward to refill the glass. With a wavering, clumsy hand, he unstopped the decanter and poured himself a generous measure. He lifted the glass, as if making a toast.

"To the loss of your innocence, my dear," he said bitterly.

His mouth quirked in a tight, self-deprecating smile Gracie had never seen before. It chilled her to the bone. He took a generous sip and sank back against the chair.

"And how did you come to know who Mademoiselle Daaé is?"

Gracie swallowed and shrank under his piercing gaze. To lie wouldn't do now. Perhaps to try and stall the answer?

"Besides your dreams?"

He nodded once and Gracie's eyes darted away. So much for stalling. She took in a deep breath, bracing herself for his outburst of rage.

"I. . . I read _The Phantom of the Opera_"

"You. . . _what_?"

"I read Monsieur Leroux's book," she said almost inaudibly.

"God in Heaven. . ." he breathed.

Gracie looked up, in a sudden bolt of alarm. He had never, _ever_ invoked God before. He had once told her that God and him had never been in good terms and had finally fallen out with each other. He had said so with a smile, but even back then she had known he meant it seriously.

He was still slouched on the chair, but now his shoulders had drooped and he seemed much smaller than what he really was, as if he had collapsed under the weight of his shame. As she watched him, he lowered his head, covered his eyes with his hand. There was a long, smothering silence.

"How repulsed you must have been. . ." he muttered, his voice ragged.

"Oh, Papa no. I have never. . ."

Gracie leapt up. She fell to her knees by him, placed a hand on his knee and looked up into his face.

"I have _never_ been disgusted by you. . ." Her voice caught, drowned by the threat of tears, but she could feel the tension of his muscles under her hand, could feel the shudders raking his body, so she continued:

"You are the sweetest, most talented, most generous, most intelligent man I've ever met, Papa," she declared fiercely.

He shook his head in denial. She grasped his knee hardly.

"_Yes_, you are," she hissed. "I love you, Papa. I love you. Don't you ever _dare_ to think I'd ever despise you."

A low thud alerted her towards the fact he'd dropped the glass.

"Papa, look at me," she demanded.

The hand that was covering his eyes tightened, his fingers grasping his temples.

"Come now, Papa. Look at me," she coaxed him.

Slowly, careful not to remove the mask, she pried his hand from his face and held it between hers. His eyes were tightly shut, tears wet the right side of his face.

"Look at me, Papa," she cajoled him in her kindest and most reassuring voice.

She wiped his tears with her thumb, and held her palm against his good cheek. Ever so slightly, he turned his head towards her caress.

"Papa?"

"Oh, Gracie. . ." he sighed in a tiny voice.

Finally, he opened his eyes. She smiled at him and cast herself against him, sitting on his lap and hugging him in a tight embrace, until the initial shock and hesitancy to hold her had given way, and she felt his arms around her. She sighed against the side of his neck, suddenly realizing how exhausted she was, what an effort it had been to open up to him. She leant against him, relishing the comfort and safeness of his embrace, and felt how he also relaxed. They held each other for a long time.

At last he sighed, patting her shoulder.

"I've stained the carpet," he remarked, in a voice muffled by their embrace.

She chuckled, grateful he'd gathered his wits to try and make her laugh. She leant over the arm of the chair and looked at the huge puddle of cognac.

"Is it bad?" he asked from the deep recesses of the armchair.

She nodded, biting her lip in mock worry.

"Do you think Françoise will be able to wipe it out?"

She shook her head.

"Oh, my. What will Nadir say?" he asked faking panic. "I've ruined his best carpet!"

She flashed him a naughty smile.

"We'll have to move your chair closer to the fire, Papa."

* * *

**Author's notes: **Here it was, chapter 31. I hope it solved some of your questions... The next few chapters will solve the rest... I promise!   



	32. Chapter 32

* * *

The next day, Gracie overslept. When she stepped into the living room, she noticed Françoise had not opened the counterpanes. She crossed the darkened room with sure steps, product of years of memorising where the furniture was. She opened one of the windows and put a hand on the counterpane to push it open. 

"Please, tot, don't," Papa's pleading voice came from his chair.

She turned around with a small gasp.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I didn't mean to startle you."

"I thought you were still sleeping," she replied, coming close to him.

She leant over the back of his chair and placed a hand on his shoulder. Immediately, one of his hands covered hers.

"The coalman was kind enough to wake me up early this morning."

He sounded exhausted. Gracie shook her head ruefully. Papa had always been a light sleeper, easily disturbed by the sounds of the neighbourhood. She put her other hand on his shoulder and started massaging them over his light summer jacket, sensing how the tense muscles slowly relaxed. He sighed in quiet contentment.

"How are you?" she asked.

"I'm all right, except for the pounding in my head."

He must be suffering from a terrible hangover to admit he was in pain. Gracie realised he hadn't had anything to eat since the day before.

"Have you already had breakfast? Would you like some toast?"

She felt him wince in discomfort.

"No, I'm fine. Françoise has already taken care of me."

"Did you eat?" She asked suspiciously.

"I _can't_ eat, tot. Not now," his voice was sharp. After a beat he continued in a milder tone. "But I had a glass of orange juice. I'm fine."

He took her hands and joined them between his.

"You haven't had breakfast yet. Go," he urged her while tugging her hands so she went round the armchair. Then he released them.

"But. . ."

"Go, Gracie. I'll be fine," he breathed tiredly.

She nodded, and made her way towards the kitchen. Perhaps it would be better to visit Uncle Nadir this afternoon. If she stayed in the apartment, she wouldn't be able to stop mothering him and he would soon get angry. Better to leave him in the quiet care of Françoise, who seemed to instinctively perceive his needs without hovering over him.

* * *

Erik woke up with a start. He was still sitting in his armchair. He must have dozed off for a while. The last thing he remembered was Gracie on her way to Nadir's. That had been early in the afternoon, and now a single ray of golden light, slipping through a crack between the counterpanes, was warming his ankles. Erik stretched the taut muscles of his neck and slowly stood up. The unbearable pounding in his head had now reduced to a dull throbbing. It had been ages since he'd had that much to drink and he had discovered his tolerance towards alcohol had greatly reduced with the years. He stretched and opened one of the windows. Carefully shielding his eyes against the afternoon sun, he opened one of the counterpanes and let the veil curtains fall. Perhaps he should order supper from one of Gracie's favourite restaurants. How about roasted chicken from one of the _Brasseries_? Gracie loved roasted chicken and both she and Françoise needed a reprieve after his deplorable conduct the day before.

A sudden knock at the door made him jump back instinctively. Who could it be? It was too soon for Gracie to come back, and Louis was out of town for the summer. Françoise came down the hall and cast him a questioning look. Erik nodded and tried not to wince at the pain in his head. He massaged his uncovered temple slowly, as he heard Françoise unbolt the door, and ask, with a harsh voice, what the visitor wanted.

"I've come to see Monsieur Erik Devaux," said a crystal clear voice that Erik knew only too well.

He was falling, as if earth had opened underneath his feet.

From far away, he heard Françoise's usual response, then a louder protest, the sounds of struggling, Françoise's shouts and suddenly, there on the threshold to the foyer, stood Christine. He stared at her, frozen, as a deer waiting for the final kill.

Her hair was dishevelled. Strands of it had escaped her chignon and framed her pale, drawn face. There were small wrinkles on the corners of her mouth. Her eyes were red-rimmed. Her shawl had fallen from her shoulders and hung from the crook of her left arm, sweeping the floor. The hem of her dress was covered in dust.

She had never been more beautiful.

She stared back at him, wide eyed, and then she suddenly covered her mouth with her hand.

"Erik," she said raggedly. "Oh, Erik!"

And then, as if she was a puppet whose strings had been cut, she crumpled down to the floor, sobbing.

Françoise took her by the arm and attempted to make her stand up.

"Mademoiselle, you cannot stay here," she said.

Christine didn't react. She kept sobbing hysterically, her eyes now downcast, swaying slightly back and forth. Erik stood painfully still, unable to move an inch, a myriad of anguished thoughts spinning in his head. Françoise tugged Christine's arm more forcefully, and that triggered it. Erik raised a commanding hand, stopping her.

"Stop, Françoise. It's all right. Close the door. I'll take care of her."

Instinctively, he hurried forward to pick her up, but stopped a mere yard from her. He hesitated, reached out and stopped again, overwhelmed by fear. No, he would not touch her. He would _not_ watch her recoil at his touch. He opened his mouth to speak, but for his life, he couldn't come upon any words. He cleared his throat hoping she would stop crying, but she kept on whimpering softly.

With a forlorn sigh, Erik crouched in front of her, took his handkerchief out of his pocket and offered it to her. She didn't look at him. She was still concentrated on herself, as she let her pain out. . . But what for? Try as he might, Erik could simply not comprehend the cause for her outburst. What on earth had brought her here? Why was she crying? _Why_?

A new bout of pain exploded in Erik's head. The consequences of his drinking combined with the tension and heartache made him wince. He took a hand to his uncovered temple and rubbed it, while he closed his eyes tightly.

"Erik?"

His whispered name made him shudder. It had never sounded so sweet. Yet, he knew the douceur he thought he heard in her voice was but an illusion. He had always been prone to grand delusions when it came to Christine Daaé.

He breathed in, braced himself and opened his eyes. If he hadn't known better, he would have sworn there was concern etched on her face.

"Here, take it," he said offering his handkerchief to her again.

He carefully avoided the touch of her fingers when she finally accepted. He came to his feet.

"Come on, it is much more comfortable to sit on a chair."

He didn't offer to help her stand. He _would not_ touch her.

Christine looked at him for a moment, wide-eyed, and then two tears slid down her cheeks. Erik stared down at her, hands clenched in fists at his sides, nails digging into his palms, trying, desperately, to keep his composure, the dignity he had painstakingly rebuilt during all these years. The headache was gripping his skull with an iron grasp, threatening to turn into a full-blown migraine. It wouldn't be long before he would start seeing small bright spots. He _had_ to sit down. He nodded, gesturing for her to sit on the couch.

"Come on, Christine," he urged her.

It was the first time he pronounced her name, and he was startled to hear how commonplace it sounded.

She took in a deep breath, swallowed, regaining her composure. She stood up and followed him, sitting on the couch. Erik sat on his armchair.

They sat still for a while, regarding each other. Christine dried her tears with his handkerchief. It seemed to him she held it to her mouth and inhaled his scent for a little while. He shook his head. All these years and he still read every meaningless gesture of hers as a sign of acceptance. He should know better. His head knew better, but his blind stubborn heart still held on to chimaeras. He cupped his chin with his hand.

"Why have you come?" he breathed.

"I was told. . ." she began. "Your daughter said you'd had a stroke some years ago and yesterday. . . yesterday there was news you were ill, and I thought. . ."

She faltered.

"I thought you. . . I couldn't bear the thought of loosing you again, Erik."

Erik stared at her bewildered, unable to believe his own ears. No, she hadn't said that. He was hallucinating. It was the beginning of the migraine. The room had effectively gone darker, and the sparkling lights were already dancing at the periphery of his vision. Erik closed his eyes and tried to breathe. After a while, he heard her voice again.

"Erik? Are you feeling well?"

A hand landed on his forearm, and he shrank back with a shudder. He opened his eyes. Christine was standing by the armchair. He hadn't heard her steps, the rustling of her skirts. He blinked.

"Yes. I'm fine. Sit down."

He was grateful his voice didn't waver. . . Not much. She regarded him closely for a little while, then stepped back and sat down again.

"You don't look that well," she said.

Erik huffed. Now she was mothering him?

"Why did you come, Christine?" he asked sharply.

He expected her to lower hey eyes, frightened. He was surprised when she contemplated him instead, brows furrowed.

"Your daughter said you were paralyzed," her voice was firm, questioning. "She said you had suffered a stroke some years back."

She evidently expected an answer.

"It was a story we concocted years ago. It explains why I don't leave the apartment," his voice was coldly polite in turn. "Why did you come?" he insisted.

She took in a shuddering breath.

"I thought. . . I thought you were gravely ill. I couldn't bear the idea of loosing you without seeing you again."

Erik winced. There were those words again. They were painful, more painful than the pounding in his head, more painful than any other physical pain he had ever suffered.

"Loosing _me_?"

"I went to the Opéra, after the fire. . . I came back, but I couldn't. . ." Her words were now coming in short, gasping breaths. "I couldn't find you. The mob had. . . had destroyed your home and Madame Giry told me. . . They had shot you, Erik. They said you were dead!"

She was now weeping quietly again. Erik's hand darted towards his shoulder, where he could almost feel his old wound.

"The fools that shot me had evidently never excelled in target practice," he said coldly.

"But how. . . How could you. . .?"

Erik cleared his throat, straightened in the chair.

"A friend helped me out. He took me to his home and nursed me to health."

He smiled bitterly at the surprised look on her face.

"Yes, Christine. Even a monster like me ended up having a friend," he snorted.

He didn't know why he was giving her explanations, why were they reviving those long gone, painful days. But then, an unbelievable idea struck his poor, aching brain. No, it couldn't be. He had heard wrong again.

"You. . . You went back to the Opéra?"

She nodded silently.

"A week after the fire," she whispered.

"What for?"

She looked at him as if he had grown another head.

"Why, for you, of course. . ." she whispered.

"What did you want from me?"

"Nothing. . ."

"Then why. . .? Did your Viscount leave you? Did he find out that, after all, you were not good enough for him? Did he cast you out to the street?"

Erik's voice was harsh. He spoke the words in haste, as if uttering them would get him rid of years of bitterness and heartache.

She shook her head, stunned, crossed.

"He didn't leave me. _I_ left him. I realised I shouldn't be with him. I went back for _you_, Erik."

"And of what service could this beast be to you back then, Mademoiselle Daaé?"

"I didn't want anything from you, Erik! I loved you! I care for you! I have mourned you for over ten years!" she screamed.

Erik closed his eyes and the darkness exploded in a myriad of lights. He covered his brow with a hand, willing the headache away. Willing her shrill voice away. Willing _her _away. He swallowed the lump in his throat, and after a while, he was able to speak.

"Please, Christine," he begged. "Stop this make-believe. You don't have to pretend to care for me to get whatever you want from me. That hasn't changed. Tell me what I can do for you."

"I don't want anything from you, Erik," she protested. "I just came to see you. . . I _do_ care."

Erik ran a hand through his hair, in a vain attempt to loosen the taut, sore muscles of his head. His mouth was terribly dry.

"All right," he sighed. "Let's pretend you cared for me back then. It's been twelve years, Christine. What is the point in unearthing all those feelings?"

He didn't look at her. He couldn't.

Christine stared at him. She could see the tension that gripped his body, the rigid self-control that he displayed, and the carefulness with which he averted her eyes.

"Oh, Erik. . ." she sighed. "Your daughter was right."

His body was shaken by a jolt.

"My daughter? In what?"

Christine stared down at her hands, which were painfully gripping Erik's handkerchief. It smelt of him, a scent she'd thought she would never perceive in her life again. That piece of linen was now, for her, more precious than anything she had previously owned.

"I. . . talked to her the day before yesterday. She is a grown girl, and I wanted to know. . . I thought what you had said about not knowing a woman's touch had been a lie."

She shook her head.

"She told me I was a fool, of course," she said in a self-deprecating tone. "That I had never grown up. That you had loved me and I had discarded you. That I didn't deserve your love. That I was so self-centred I had never known what it really meant to love someone. She was right."

She was at the brink of tears again, but she would not cry. Christine pressed her lips together, acknowledging that she no longer had a place in Erik's life. The memory she had cherished all these years, the regret and the longing, they all belonged to the past. Unlike her, he had outgrown his love for her, he had built a new life for himself, and she was not a part of it. She couldn't come to his doorstep and make egoistic demands. She had caused him enough heartache in the past. He deserved to be happy, and all she had ever brought him was anguish and grief. She stared down at her hands, which were still clenching Erik's handkerchief. This was the hardest thing she had ever done. She now fully understood the immensity of his gesture, what it must have cost him to let her go, all those years ago, underneath the Opéra. She put the handkerchief on the arm of the couch, smoothed it out slowly, carefully.

"I. . . I am sorry to have disturbed you. I'm sorry for. . ." Her voice caught.

She stood up.

"Perhaps we should leave things as they are," she whispered.

He would be much better off without her. He had done splendidly without her all these years.

She remained standing for a while, waiting for him to say something. She bit her lip and suddenly, on an impulse, picked up the handkerchief. She was going to leave. She was going to let him be, just as he seemed to wish. But she was unable to leave without a single memento of him.

Erik had raised his eyes when he heard her stand up. He watched her move, hesitate, pause, pick up the handkerchief, look at it lovingly. Yes, lovingly. He could no longer deny the evidence of his senses.

Christine breathed in, resolutely. She curtsied.

"Good bye, Erik."

She turned around and walked away. Quick, quick, she told herself. She had to be out of the apartment before tears started falling down her cheeks.

"Christine," his voice was but a whisper, but froze her in place.

She didn't turn around, unable to look at him without starting to cry again.

"Yes?" she managed.

"Perhaps. . . Perhaps you could. . . If you had time. . . Would you like to come this Saturday? In the afternoon? To visit?" His voice, which had until then been tightly laced by self-control, was shy, unsteady.

She turned around and looked at him with astounded eyes. He was standing, and was nervously turning the plain gold band on his little finger. There was a gleam in his eyes, a wistful expression she had not seen since. . . Making a tremendous effort not to be overwhelmed by the memory, she swallowed a sob and gave him her most radiant smile instead.

"I. . . I would love to," she mustered with a trembling voice.

He bowed his head.

"Until Saturday, then," his deep, velvety voice carried a profound undercurrent of emotion.

Christine went down the stairs and out to the street in a daze. She felt as if she was floating over the cobblestones, not walking on them. Had she been younger, she would have started running and jumping and dancing in joy. He wanted to see her. He wanted to see her again, she told herself over and over. She walked all the way to the train station and sat on a bench. Her feet ached, she was thirsty and her cheeks burnt with the salt of shed tears. She would have to wait an hour for her train. She was hungry too, and didn't have any money, but she didn't care. The sun was shining and it was a glorious afternoon, and she would see Erik in three days time.

* * *

**Author's notes**: Well, that was chapter 32. I hope it solved the rest of your questions... Or at least part of them. Please, tell me what you think about it. Your long comments have been so enlightening! They have really helped me to picture how someone who's never read the story before reacts to it...  



	33. Chapter 33

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And thus Christine came that Saturday, when the rays of the sunny afternoon bathed the old Persian carpet in the sitting room in a golden light, so alike the ones that had covered the floors of Erik's underground home. Erik offered her tea. The maid came with her favourite brand of tea and some petite gâteaus. Christine was touched to the brink of tears when she had the first bite and tasted the chocolate filling. So many years had passed and he still remembered all these small details about her. And she didn't even know what kinds of foods, beside his Russian tea, he liked best. Such had been the difference between his and her love. He had loved her with selfless intensity, while she had been so concentrated upon herself that she had completely failed to notice him. Christine had bit her lip in regret. 

Noticing her hesitation and sheepishness, he had politely asked her about her pupils, her job as a music teacher, and soon succeeded in starting an easy going conversation which they maintained throughout the afternoon. It had been peppered by some awkward silences here and there, and Christine couldn't help but noticing he was also anxious and uncertain around her, not really knowing what to do and what to say at times.

She had tried to overcome the difficult moments then, reaching out to him, asking about his business and his daughter, pleased when he answered, overjoyed at the fact that he was willing to talk to her about himself. When the time had come to say good-bye, Christine hadn't waited for him to invite her again. She had, with some amount of nervousness, asked him whether she could come another afternoon, and had breathed in relief at his quick assent.

They started seeing each other again, at regular intervals. Every two weeks, Christine would catch the train bound to Paris, a nervous fluttering of butterflies in her stomach. She would sit in the third class compartment and rock on the wooden chair to the rhythm of the train, a sandwich on her lap. She would eat her sandwich between stations, and instead of taking a cab would walk all the way to Erik's, to save money for her next visit.

The long, amiable conversations in the semi-darkened sitting room had become her solace, the high points of her life. She revelled in his company, content to see his gestures and his smiles, happy to listen to him talk and laugh. . . He laughed often now, a rich and powerful sound which sent shivers down her spine. And he was so calm, so self-confident. He had evidently found an inner balance in his life, a happiness that had so long been denied to him, and Christine was happy that she had been given the chance to be a witness of his new existence.

She knew she had shattered his love for her with her betrayal years before. She knew she would never be able to regain it. She knew she didn't deserve him. That knowledge tinged the happiness of the friendship he offered with a touch of sorrow but, paradoxically, it also increased it. Christine was fully conscious of what a great miracle it was to have his company, and was immensely grateful for it.

She lingered in his home until the last minute, and several times she had been about to lose the train that would take her back to her small village in Normandy. She was content to visit, to listen to him talk and laugh. . . It was enough. It was more than enough. More than what she'd ever dreamed of.

Erik revelled in Christine's company. He spent hours preparing the house for her next visit. He spent even more time reliving their conversations in his head, recreating each one of her small gestures.

He simply couldn't believe his luck. That she was willing to take that train for his sake every two weeks; that she just sat there and talked to him about the small details of her life, of the village she lived in, of the pupils she had, of the books she had read; that she wanted to tell him about her walking trips and the run-down church, and the simple life she led, often seemed a wonder to him.

He treasured every word, every smile, and every movement of her hands, slowly discovering that the woman that came to his home was a far cry from the bashful, naïve girl he'd met so many years ago. She had changed. She had changed so much. She was now a mature, easy-going woman who sat on his couch and asked, without hesitation or reserve, about his life, about his work and his partner, about his music and his readings. She often found in herself to tease her way around painful subjects or things he didn't want to talk about, and if they disagreed on something, she would calmly stand her ground instead of cowering back and falling silent.

And one afternoon, on a Thursday, there was a knock at the door and Françoise had announced her presence. He had rushed forward, worried that something might have happened to her, but she had looked at him with contrite eyes that were belied by a small smile. She had said everything was fine; she was not in need of anything; she just had a free day, and she had thought of spending the afternoon in his company. Did he mind? Was he busy? She could just go back if. . . She made a move to turn around and leave, but he caught her elbow and with a ridiculously wide smile on his face led her to the couch. That she had come to him spontaneously, that she had braved a four hour journey to see him in the middle of the week. . . It was shocking. It was unthinkable. It was the best thing that had happened to him in a very long time.

Gracie hated it. She hated Papa's helpless love for Christine Daaé more than she hated the woman herself. She had been outraged the evening she had come home after visiting Uncle Nadir and she had learnt that the woman had dared to come to their apartment, that she had invaded _their_ retreat and, most shockingly, that Papa had welcomed her, and he had invited her to visit.

She had made her views about the former diva clear to him, but he had retorted harshly, almost as harshly as he had reacted when he had first learnt of Gracie's and Christine Daaé's first encounter. Then he had grown menacingly calm, and he had told her, with a freezing politeness, that he had the right to choose his own friends and he would invite whomever he thought best to his home. At that, Gracie had cast her first temper tantrum. She had screamed and stamped the floor, ranted about how foolish he was to trust the woman that had shattered his heart, and when he had failed to react, she had grabbed her coat, had slammed the door, had run down the stairs and the whole way towards Uncle Nadir's abode.

She hadn't found the support she had thought she would get in Uncle Nadir. Instead of grabbing his coat and running out to Papa's apartment to spell things out to him, Uncle Nadir had calmly remained on his couch, smoking one of his huge cigars. He had told her that Papa was right, that he was old enough to make his own choices. When she had retorted, irritated, that the woman would just take advantage of him, Uncle Nadir had told her that it wouldn't do to try and protect Papa. He was not to be treated like a child. If the woman really took advantage of him, then they would have to help him stand on his feet again, but they couldn't decide his life for him. When Gracie had insisted, Uncle Nadir had reminded her, gently but firmly, that he had helped Papa back to his feet more than once, long before Gracie had ever come into the picture. That had been the end of the discussion, and Gracie had learnt that she wouldn't get any aid in her campaign against Christine Daaé.

She had hated it more when she had found out that Christine Daaé refused to make demands on Papa's love, apparently content to visit him whenever she had the chance. When Gracie started to hear about the woman's misfortunes, she thought Christine Daaé would ask Papa for help, but was surprised when the woman failed to tell Papa a single word about her dire straits in the long conversations Gracie eavesdropped from the hall.

Through Lucille and her mother, Gracie had learnt how the inhabitants of the small town in Normandy had started to shun Christine Daaé throughout the autumn, as the music teacher had continued her mysterious trips to the city every two weeks, and rumour had flown that she had a lover in Paris. The mothers of the pupils of Christine Daaé started to turn her off and, at the beginning of winter, the singer didn't have a single student left. She was asked not to sing in Church by the priest, and had to sit alone in her pew during mass, for no one would sit beside her. Madame Calmette wondered why she didn't stop her trips to Paris, and who paid for them, since her meagre savings must have been exhausted some time ago. Gracie had, on the contrary, a rough idea about how Christine Daaé managed to save the money for her trips.

She noticed that the woman was thinner, and a little bit paler at the end of autumn. She always wore one of two dresses when she visited Papa. The hem of her cloak, which she hurriedly took off at the entrance, was threadbare. Her gloves, which Françoise collected as well, had been darned more than once. But the woman had dismissed lightly Papa's concerns about her thinness and pallor, and she had laughed when he had referred to the invariability of her garments. She had said a spinster like herself was in no need of varying her wardrobe. And then, at the beginning of winter, she had moved to Paris. Madame Calmette wondered how she would now live. None of the families of the daughters she had taught had given her a single letter of recommendation.

Gracie had thought that the woman would tell Papa about her moving now that she would have more time for visiting but, to her surprise, the woman had instead told Papa that she wouldn't be able to visit during weekdays or Saturdays. She had new students, and would be forced to work on Saturdays. Would it suit him if she came on Sundays? She could visit every week, instead, if she was not being too imposing. . . Gracie's mouth had fallen open when she had heard that. She couldn't fathom what the woman was playing at.

A week later, the mystery of Christine Daaé's new means of living had been disclosed. The Calmettes' maid had gone to fetch some linen she had left in the laundry the previous week, and the clerk that had served her had been none other than Christine Daaé. The Calmettes had been so shocked by the news that the former music teacher had become their sole subject of conversation. Gracie had then decided not to invite Lucille to their apartment any more, lest Papa overhear Lucille's chattering and learnt the truth. Gracie was certainly not the only one who eavesdropped in their home.

And then, at the beginning of December, Papa had fallen ill.

* * *

**Author's notes: **Thank you everyone for reviewing! I know that introducing Christine after so many years was quite risky for the story. I hope that it has more or less met your expectations... And of course, Gracie couldn't just fade away. A special thanks to Sarah for her kind review... I hope this chapter didn't confirm your misgivings.   



	34. Chapter 34

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Christine had to remind herself to ascend the steps slowly. Last Sunday, Erik had teased her incessantly because she had been out of breath when she had knocked at his door, and today she didn't want to be the target for more teasing. She didn't want to appear too eager to visit. His visible eyebrow had shot up in a curious, disbelieving gesture when she had told him she was free the coming Wednesday, a gesture which had not entirely faded when she had reminded him that it was the feast of Immaculate Conception. He had commented, almost casually, that he hated for her to spend all her day travelling. He was sure she was missing Mass because of him. She had smiled, had reminded him of something she had told him before: she attended the first morning Mass, and then she took the train. She had breathed inwardly in relief when he seemed to accept her reasoning. 

Until now, he apparently didn't suspect that she had moved back to Paris, as he hadn't noticed the small changes that had occurred with her change of trade. The first two or three times she had visited after starting her work at the laundry, Christine had been extremely worried about the redness and dryness of her hands, about the faint smell of bleach which stubbornly stuck to her after the long hours of washing clothes. But she had quickly found a remedy for both things: a new bottle of perfume and a pair of white crochet gloves which Erik had praised and which had cost her two weeks' wages. Christine, who had been eating nothing but porridge for a long time now, had been forced to reduce her meagre portions even more during those two weeks. It had been a torture to rein herself and not gobble up all of Erik's sandwiches in her visits, but it had been worthwhile. She couldn't have him worrying about her. She didn't think she could bear the embarrassment of him knowing her current trade and living arrangements.

Christine had been so immersed in her own thoughts that she hadn't noticed the woman who was running down the stairs until they collided. Christine grabbed the banister tightly to avoid falling, as she lost her footing. She stumbled back a step. Meanwhile, the woman held on to the wall and jumped the two remaining steps unto the third floor landing, continuing her way without looking back.

"I'm sorry, Madame!" Christine heard her shout from the next landing, and only then did she realise it was Erik's maid.

Puzzled, Christine climbed the rest of the stairs, asking herself what could have put Françoise in such a hurry. Only when she had knocked at the door and nobody answered did a terrible premonition engulf her. A void opened in the pit of her stomach, and she quietly slid down the wall, covering her mouth with her hand, until she was sitting on the floor.

* * *

Françoise found her there half an hour later, when she returned with the doctor. The doctor had looked curiously at the woman sitting on the stairs, but he had hurried down the hall as soon as Françoise had opened the door. It remained Françoise's task to lift Mademoiselle Daaé to her feet, guide her into the sitting room and offer her a cup of tea. Only then did Mademoiselle Daaé seem to shake out of her shock.

"What happened to him?" were the first words she uttered.

Françoise bit her lip, considering how much to tell her. She had been utterly surprised the fist afternoon Monsieur Devaux had allowed the woman to come into his home, and it only had puzzled her further when he had invited Mademoiselle Daaé again and again in the past few months. But Françoise's misgivings were soon dispelled by Monsieur Devaux's joy at her visits.

"He had a heart attack, Mademoiselle."

Mademoiselle Daaé's eyes widened.

"Oh my God. . ." she breathed and her eyes darted away.

Françoise feared she was about to give way to hysteria, just as she had done the first afternoon she had visited. But Mademoiselle composed herself quite rapidly. Only her tightly clenched fingers gave away her anguish when she looked at Françoise again.

"Is there anything I can do? Fetch another doctor? Go to the chemist's?"

Françoise shook her head slowly.

"Doctor Albaret is a very competent physician, Mademoiselle. He has treated Monsieur Devaux before. And Gracie is with him. If there's need for medicine I will run the errand."

Mademoiselle Daaé blinked repeatedly and swallowed hard. She lifted her hands and splayed them in the air, in a helpless gesture.

"But maybe. . ."

"The only thing to do now is to wait, Mademoiselle."

Mademoiselle Daaé nodded. Her lips were now trembling.

"I guess it will be better if I left. I don't want to intrude. . ." she said with a very small voice as she attempted to stand up.

Françoise took pity on her. She put her hand on Mademoiselle's shoulder, comfortingly.

"I think. . . I think Monsieur would be glad to know you are here. If you can spare the time. . ."

Mademoiselle sat back with a sigh of relief. Her eyes were now filled with an immense gratitude.

"I'll bring you your tea," added Françoise.

She had almost gone out of the sitting room when Mademoiselle Daaé called her back.

"Françoise. . ."

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

When Françoise came back with the cup of tea, Mademoiselle was staring longingly at Monsieur Devaux's armchair.

* * *


	35. Chapter 35

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Nadir hopped from the cab as soon as it stopped, sprung across the sidewalk and into the building, leaving Darius to pay the cab driver. He knew he shouldn't have travelled to Versailles today. He had the feeling that something was going to be terribly wrong. Damned be his love for palaces and beautiful gardens. Damned be Erik's constant teasing about Nadir not daring to go and see if the restorers had ruined his favourite corner of the Petit Trianon. As soon as Nadir saw Darius' face at the train station, he knew that his foreboding premonition had been right. Sixty-three years and he still didn't know that he had to follow his heart in these matters? He prayed to Allah he wasn't too late. 

He knocked at Erik's door and leant his hands on his knees, trying to regain his breath. The door opened, and Nadir nodded at a grave looking Françoise, who took his coat and hat.

"How is he?" he asked as soon as he could muster the first few words.

Françoise bit her lip and looked away.

"He hasn't woken up yet, Monsieur. The doctor said. . ."

Nadir clenched his jaw and nodded. He knew how this worked. The longer it took Erik to regain consciousness, the more likely it was he wouldn't outlive the attack.

"Gracie?"

"She's with him, Monsieur. She has been in his room the whole time."

Nadir nodded again, and headed straight to Erik's room. At the sound of his firm footsteps, Gracie darted out of the room and fell into his arms. She held the lapels of his jacket tightly and leant her head on his chest, shaking uncontrollably. Nadir held her, rubbing her back and making small, hushed sounds. She leant heavily against him, and he stood still, supporting her. It wasn't long before Nadir's shirt became wet with tears. He nodded towards Françoise. The maid immediately went into Erik's room.

"Come now, come now, little one," he cooed. "Let's go into the sitting room. Françoise will keep him company and Darius will make you some tea."

Darius, who had come into the apartment by then, nodded once and made his way into the kitchen.

Gracie clung to Nadir and refused to give a step.

"I can't. . . We can't go into the sitting room," she whimpered.

Nadir took her by the shoulders and held her at arm's length, his eyebrows arched in a mute question.

"Mademoiselle. . . Daaé is in the sitting room," she explained quietly, though the woman would not have understood them anyway since they were speaking Farsi. "She was visiting today."

"All right, but you have to sit down."

Nadir guided Gracie to a chair on the hall and crouched in front of her. He offered her his handkerchief but she showed him her own, now a wrinkled ball of cloth. It would be good enough, thought Nadir, and put his handkerchief back into his pocket.

"What time did this happen, Gracie?"

"Right after lunch. He said his old bones were protesting, and that he was going to have a quick nap. He didn't even make it to his room. . ."

"All right, all right, child," crooned Nadir as he patted her knee. "When will doctor Albaret come back?"

"He just left. He said to call upon him if there were any news."

Nadir nodded pensively and checked his watch. It was eight-thirty in the evening. Gracie had to get some rest and eat something before she fell ill with worry. He would take over the vigil by Erik's side. He would stay over the night and so would Darius, since Françoise also needed a good night's sleep. And Mademoiselle Daaé was in the sitting room. He would also have to take care of that.

"How long has Mademoiselle Daaé been here?"

"I don't know," sniffled Gracie.

"Does she know about your father's illness?"

She shrugged.

"I guess. . . I don't know. I wish she would go away!"

That caught Nadir by surprise. He had known about Gracie's hostility towards the former singer from the start, and was aware that her dislike had barely diminished in the last few months, but such an open display of ill will was over the top, no matter how worried Gracie was for Erik's well being.

"She is a guest in this house, Gracie," he reminded her sternly.

"She should know when she's overstaying her welcome, then!" Gracie retorted.

Nadir opened his mouth to tell her that, according to the rules of courtesy, no guest could ever overstay his welcome, and that it was her duty to treat Mademoiselle Daaé with politeness and respect, but a look at Gracie's pained features was enough to stop him. He couldn't scold her. Not now. The girl had gone through a terrible ordeal. She was tired and hungry. She would see things more objectively tomorrow.

"I'll take care of her, Gracie. Go to the kitchen and have something to eat. Then I want you to go to bed straightaway," he said as he slowly stood up.

"But Uncle Nadir. . ."

"No buts. Go," he ordered in his most commanding tone.

He smiled when she stood up and went down the hall without another protest. It was quite funny that both she and Erik still pledged to a slightly graver pitch of his voice. Erik. . . Nadir felt a pang at the thought of his good friend fighting for his life in the next room. He wiped his face with a hand. This would be a long night, he knew. He had experienced, first hand, the cruel anguish of sitting by Erik's bed, listening to him painfully taking breath after breath, wondering if the next would be the last. He had seen the darkest hour of the night, right after dawn, when he had prayed for the first lights to come faster if only to bring an apparent change. Better to take one thing at a time. Gracie had been taken care of. Now to Mademoiselle Daaé.

The sitting room was shrouded in shadows. The fire was burning low in the grate. Françoise had lit one lamp on the mantelpiece, but its light was not enough to illuminate the whole room. Nadir could barely discern the shadow standing by one of the windows. He dipped his head in a courteous greeting.

"Good evening, Mademoiselle Daaé."

She turned around at the sound of his voice and came forth. Nadir had to carefully rein his features to keep the polite, impassive expression on his face. Her wide eyes, her thinness and the pallor of her face, contrasting with the dark grey of her wrinkled dress made her look like a ghost. She looked at him in confusion, and then her features softened, as she slowly remembered him.

"Monsieur," she whispered, her melodious voice otherworldly, befitting an apparition. "You used to frequent the Opéra Populaire. . ."

Nadir nodded.

"I often went there to visit a friend," he explained.

Her face lighted with recognition, and she smiled at him. Nadir was astonished. That smile enlivened her face in such a way that it was as if a corpse became a living being again.

"You are Erik's friend. You saved him," she said.

Those words threw Nadir into confusion. Had she gone mad now?

"I'm sorry, Mademoiselle?"

"Back at the Opéra. You saved him from the mob."

"Hardly," he scoffed. "I was actually too late to prevent him being shot."

"But you did save his life. He told me."

Nadir's felt his colour rise under her gaze. He looked away. He couldn't take her gratitude. Not when Erik. . .

"Have you had anything to eat, Mademoiselle?" he asked.

She seemed a little taken aback by the change of subject.

"Yes. . . no. . . I. . . I don't. . ." she stuttered.

"I take it you haven't. Please, excuse me for a minute."

He quickly ducked his head and hurried over to the kitchen. He was happy to notice there was a steaming pot on the stove and Gracie was finishing a plate of soup. There was a large glass of milk in front of her. Praised be Françoise's prevision. That woman's practical sense could keep an army marching through the worst of crisis. He ordered Darius to serve two dishes and take them to the dining room, and then, lifting a foreboding finger, he reminded Gracie to go to bed once she had drunk her milk. He turned around and went back to the sitting room.

"Supper will be served in a minute, Mademoiselle," he said, gesturing for her to sit on the couch.

"It's very kind of you, Monsieur, but you really don't have to. . ."

"Mademoiselle, please. We have both had a long day and a long night awaits us."

She sat on the couch without another word. Nadir paced the length of the room slowly, planning what to say to her. He nodded at Darius when the manservant opened the doors to the dining room.

"Please, Mademoiselle," he said, and extended his arm, inviting her to the dining room.

She waited for him to pull the chair for her. He seated her and then sat across her. The delicious smell of homemade soup wafted towards him, and Nadir realised how hungry he was. He tilted the bread basket towards Mademoiselle Daaé, and she took a roll. They started eating in silence.

"How is he, Monsieur. . ." she stopped, and reddened.

"Kahn," he informed her. "Nadir Kahn."

"How is he, Monsieur Kahn?"

Nadir carefully considered what to say to her. He really didn't know how Erik was faring. It was too soon to know. In some serious attacks it had taken Erik up till two days to regain consciousness. In the milder ones, it could take from six to eight hours. Doctor Albaret's words had not been enlightening, and Nadir realised, with no little embarrassment, that he hadn't seen Erik yet. Not that it mattered much, really. Erik always looked like hell after an attack, no matter how mild it had been.

He looked at the woman. Despite the red-rimmed eyes and the pallor of her face, she seemed strangely composed. It seemed as if she could take the truth and she deserved it.

"I don't know, Mademoiselle. It will take time to know how severe the spell has been. It depends on how soon he will regain consciousness. Haven't you talked to the doctor?"

She shook her head and bit her lip. The doctor had come and gone three times without casting as much as a glance at her. Erik's daughter had not been out of Erik's room, and Françoise had been kind to her, but had not been a very good source of information. Christine had been as good as a ghost, waiting unseen and unheard in the sitting room. But it was to be expected. She was but an acquaintance to the household, and not a much liked one at that.

Nadir shook his head regretfully.

"I'm sorry nobody has explained this to you. You should have been better informed."

"It is all right, Monsieur Kahn. It's perfectly natural. I'm not part of the family," she said, and Nadir was surprised to hear the resigned, bitter tone of her voice.

There was a strained silence, only interrupted by the clanging of the spoons and the butter knives against the china.

"Monsieur Kahn. . ."

"Yes?"

"Has Erik had these attacks before?"

Nadir stared at her, surprised.

"Yes," he answered at last. "He has suffered from a heart condition for many years now."

Her eyes darted away. In the fleeting glimpse of torment he saw before she evaded his look, he clearly read deep regret.

"I never knew. . ."

"You couldn't have. He was never fond of talking about it."

"He. . ." she started, tracing small circles with the butt of her knife on the tablecloth. "Once, at the Opéra, he failed to come to a music lesson. . . He didn't show up in almost a week. I thought. . . I thought I had somehow wronged him. I thought he was upset," her voice had become a whisper.

Nadir reached out to her over the table, and squeezed her hand. The shock of having a virtual stranger grab her hand was enough to pull her out of her misery.

"It is not time to dwell on the past, Mademoiselle Daaé. I know Erik would be happy to know you were here today. And. . . Well, he might not be willing to see you when he regains consciousness. He is the master of denial," huffed Nadir. "He cannot bear to show weakness. But it will mean a lot to him if you try."

Two silent tears rolled down Christine Daaé's cheeks. She quickly dashed them away. Nadir stood up, to give her a little time to compose herself. They went back into the sitting room.

"I think you need a good night's sleep Mademoiselle," stated Nadir, and hoped she wouldn't take his earnest offer as a trespassing on her privacy. "I will stay here and keep a vigil on Erik. My apartment is not far away and it has a passable guest room. You are welcome to stay there. Darius will escort you."

She blinked in surprise, took a hand to her chest.

"You are very kind, Monsieur Kahn, but I cannot possibly accept. . ."

"Please, Mademoiselle," Nadir insisted, relieved that she had taken no offence. "You have missed the last train to Normandy. It is an honour for me to welcome you in my home."

"Thank you Monsieur Kahn. I thank you for your offer but. . . I have a place to stay here in Paris."

He regarded her evenly, trying to weigh whether she was telling the truth. She probably had some friends she would be more comfortable with.

"All right, then. Darius will escort you to your friend's home."

"No, Monsieur. You're too kind but. . ."

"I will accept no apologies. You have to rest, and it is not safe for a woman to go about Paris unescorted at this hour of the night."

Nadir turned around and strode towards the kitchen. When he came back, followed by Darius, Mademoiselle Daaé was standing by the entrance, her cloak already on, an uncertain look on her face. Nadir felt a pang of regret. He really wanted to start his vigil by Erik's side, but hadn't meant to dismiss her so efficiently. He didn't want her to feel unwelcome. Perhaps he had been too abrupt?

"You will call in tomorrow, Mademoiselle, will you not? We will know how Erik is faring in the morning," he said in his kindest voice.

A small smile quirked the corners of her mouth.

"If I'm not disturbing. . ."

"No, of course not. Try to get some sleep and _please_ come back tomorrow. I'll probably be sleeping by the time you come, but Gracie will give you news."

Christine Daaé couldn't help a small huff.

"I'm not appreciated by Erik's daughter. . ."

Nadir nodded.

"I know. But she'll obey her uncle."

He saw her blink in confusion, and couldn't help a small chuckle.

"She's always followed Uncle Nadir's orders, Mademoiselle. Please, know you will always be welcome in this house."

Instead of laughing with him, she blinked rapidly, moved to tears once again.

"Thank. . . thank you Monsieur."

She curtsied. Nadir stood by open door and watched as she and Darius went down the stairs. He then closed the door and went to Erik's room. His vigil had begun.

* * *

**Author's notes: **Chapter 34 was so short I figured out I'd better update two chapters the same day... 

There's something else that's not strictly canonical about this chapter. In Kay's phantom Christine witnesses one of Erik's attack. I thought it made a nice dramatic effect that she ignored all about it in this story. I hope you bear with me!

Thank you all (Moomoo-sama, Sue Raven, Rossignol, Allegratree, Chibi-binasu chan, Nicole Gruebel, HDKingsbury, Sarah and Clever Lass) for the long, thoughtful reviews! You really make my day.

HDKingsbury: I'm happy you liked my characterisation of Gracie. She is in fact based on some younger members of my family. And Sarah, I hope Françoise's role in the last chapter were up to your expectations. There will be a bit more of her in the coming chapters.


	36. Chapter 36

* * *

Nadir shook himself from a slight doze and looked at Erik. Erik was still lying on his back, his head slightly tilted towards the wall. Nadir sighed forlornly. Erik hadn't moved. His profile was stark against the dark wall. His eye and visible cheek were sunken, the lines on his face harder with suffering. Nadir listened intently. Erik's breathing was regular, and it seemed to Nadir he was taking deeper breaths, but there was no way to be sure. He had deceived himself before, thinking Erik seemed doing better, thinking he would wake up at any minute. Nadir shook his head and had a look at his watch. It was seven-thirty. Dawn would come soon, or so Nadir hoped. He stood up and wandered to the window. He opened the heavy curtains and looked out. It was pitch black, and Nadir felt his spirits fall. Why on earth did he always have to wake up before sunrise? These hours were the most difficult ones. Time seemed to stop still. Everything was quiet, and the lack of noise only made more intense the feeling of anxiety. But he shouldn't have dozed, he scolded himself. What good was it for Erik to have a snoring gaffer sitting by his bed? 

There was a slight rustle in the room and Nadir turned around. He was elated when he noticed Erik's head was turned towards the fire and his right arm, which had been resting by his side, was now resting on his chest. Nadir hurried towards the bed. Erik's eyes were bleary and unfocused, but after a couple of blinks a weak smile lifted the visible corner of his mouth.

"My friend," Nadir breathed.

Erik opened his mouth, but no sound came through his parched lips. Nadir picked up the glass of water from the nightstand and carefully lifted Erik's head so he could drink.

"When?" Erik asked as soon as Nadir let his head back on the pillow.

"After lunch. Yesterday."

Erik closed his eyes wearily.

"What time is it?"

"Seven-thirty in the morning."

Erik nodded, almost imperceptibly. Nadir knew he was trying to estimate the severity of the attack by calculating how long it had taken him to wake up, by gauging how weak he felt, how much pain he was in.

"Gracie?"

"Sleeping. Do you want me to. . ."

Erik shook his head, opened his eyes for a second and then slid them shut again. Nadir knew he would soon slip into unconsciousness again. He hurried to grab the flask of medicine on the nightstand and measure a spoonful. He put it against Erik's lips.

"Open your mouth," he ordered.

Erik obeyed, swallowed the medicine and grimaced.

"More water?" asked Nadir.

When he got an affirmative answer he held the glass against Erik's lips again. Erik had a couple of sips and cleared his throat.

"Damn doctor," he rasped. "Can't prescribe a medicine that tastes good."

Nadir couldn't help his grin. Erik watched him from under half closed eyelids.

"Cheshire cat," he spat.

Nadir's grin got wider, if possible.

"Do you want anything else?"

"Turn. . ." said Erik in a faint voice.

His right arm crossed his torso, but Nadir knew only too well that Erik was too weak to gather enough momentum to turn. Gently, he slid his hand under his friend's back and rolled him onto his side. Erik curled up in the bed, as if he were a little child, a hand under his good cheek.

"Is there anything else I can help with?"

"Go to sleep, Daroga." Erik's words were slurred, but had an edge of annoyance that pleased Nadir immensely.

* * *


	37. Chapter 37

* * *

Françoise unbolted the front door and opened it without asking who it was. As she had expected, she came face to face with Mademoiselle Daaé. No one else knocked with those timid raps. Françoise smiled at the expectant woman. 

"He woke up this morning, Mademoiselle. The doctor came and checked him and said he's going to be all right."

"Thank God," breathed Mademoiselle, taking a clasped hand to her chest and using the other one to brace herself on the doorjamb.

"Do you need help, Mademoiselle?" asked Françoise offering her arm to help her cross the threshold.

"No, thank you, Françoise."

Mademoiselle Daaé steadied herself enough to come into the apartment. Françoise noticed, as she took the woman's cloak and gloves, that there were deep shadows under her eyes, and she looked even paler than the day before. Françoise fingered the material of the garment as she hung it on the clothes rack. It was worn and too thin for the winter. She wondered whether Mademoiselle Daaé had a better cloak. She doubted it.

"Please, come in," she said inviting the woman to the sitting room. "I'll make you a cup of tea, and call upon Mademoiselle Gracie."

Mademoiselle Daaé's face, which had been drawing a grateful smile at the mention of tea, fell suddenly.

"No, Françoise. I don't want to disturb. I'll stay a few minutes and then will go my way."

"Monsieur Kahn left orders," countered Françoise with a tone that admitted no reply and went down the hall.

She made a mental note to serve some pastries with the tea. Françoise was almost certain the woman hadn't had breakfast yet.

Christine stood up when Erik's daughter came into the sitting room. The girl assessed Christine with a cold gaze. Then she curtsied.

"Good morning, Mademoiselle Daaé."

"Good morning."

Christine opted for a simple greeting since she didn't know how to address her. To call her Mademoiselle Devaux was terribly formal given the difference in age, and Christine had the clear feeling the girl wouldn't like Christine to call her by first name.

"My father is doing better. I should thank you for your concern for his health."

The girl uttered the words flatly, as if she had learnt them by rote. There was not the slightest trace of gratefulness in her voice. Christine nodded and attempted a smile. She knew Gracie should have had a dreadful day and night, more dreadful even than Christine's.

There was a strained silence, until Françoise came in with a tray holding two cups of tea, a teapot and a plate with biscuits. With perfect manners, Gracie invited Christine to sit, served her tea and encouraged her to help herself with the biscuits. She sipped her tea while Christine nibbled on one. There was another heavy silence until Christine gathered enough courage to phrase her request.

"Do you think. . . Could I see him for a moment? It would be a short visit. . ."

Gracie's cup clunked against the saucer. Some tea spilled.

"He's sleeping now."

"All the better. I wouldn't tire him. . ." ventured Christine.

"Papa is a very light sleeper," countered Gracie harshly. She opened her mouth to say something else but closed it without a sound, visibly trying to contain herself.

Christine winced as if she had been slapped. She had a sip of tea, which now tasted inexplicably bitter. Someone knocked at the door and Gracie immediately stood up. She turned her back to Christine, listening intently at the exchange of greetings between a young man and Françoise. So like Erik, Christine thought. Gracie would regally disregard the people she held in contempt.

And just as Christine was thinking those thoughts, a young man appeared at the entrance to the sitting room and Gracie cast herself against him. The young man hugged her tightly and whispered:

"I came as soon as I got your telegram."

They separated, still holding hands, and the young man eyed the girl carefully.

"How is he? How are you? Is there something I can do?"

"He is doing better, Louis. He is doing much better. He woke up this morning and had a cup of tea and something to eat. The doctor said he will recover just fine. . . although he's quite weak. It will take some time."

Gracie's warm words were a stark contrast to the chilly tone she had employed when talking to Christine.

"And you? How are you?" queried the young man, hunching to come level with her eyes.

"I'm fine."

"Really?"

"Really, Louis, I'm perfectly fine," insisted Gracie with a low chuckle.

She stepped to the side and then the young man noticed Christine sitting on the couch. He cleared his throat and turned a deep shade of red. Christine smiled at him and slowly stood up. Her smile must have helped to ease his embarrassment, for he gave her an affable, sheepish smile in turn.

"Oh, forgive me. Let me introduce you. . ." said Gracie, her tone chilly again.

"Mademoiselle Daaé, Monsieur Louis Menand. Monsieur Menand is my father's partner. Monsieur Menand, Mademoiselle Christine Daaé.

Instantly the young architect's eyes went cold. He recovered himself though and bowed.

"Pleased to meet you, Mademoiselle," he said, in an impeccable demonstration of politeness.

But it was just a façade. Christine saw, through its cracks, that this young man, who didn't know her, felt an infinite disdain for her. And she understood. He was Erik's partner, Erik's friend, and he, like his daughter, knew what Christine had done to Erik in the past.

"The pleasure is mine, Monsieur."

They looked at each other in silence for a heartbeat, each at a loss for words. Christine prayed for Gracie to say something, anything, but a glance at the girl's stony façade made it clear she wouldn't be of any help. Christine smoothed the front of her dress, her sense of inadequacy increased.

"I. . . I think I'd rather. . . I'd rather go my way," she stuttered.

"Please, don't let my interruption cut short. . ." started the young architect.

"No, I really must go. I'm sorry," protested Christine, edging her way towards the door.

"May we meet again under more favourable conditions then," said Monsieur Menand.

Erik's daughter huffed under her breath, and Christine could barely draw a smile as she put her hand into the extended hand of the architect. He fleetingly brushed Christine's knuckles with his lips. Christine prayed he wouldn't notice the faint smell of bleach. That was, she thought with no small amount of bitterness, the only advantage of Erik's reluctance to touch her. She suddenly remembered his tenseness and hesitancy around her, his constant paranoia with the mask which led him to slightly turn his head away from her, his embarrassment about his distorted mouth, which caused him to cover his lips either with a hand or the napkin every time he had a bite of a sandwich. These people were right, thought Christine. She wasn't good for him. He was sweet and considerate and generous, and she was a vile, selfish, cold-hearted creature. What could she bring him but disappointment? It would be better if she disappeared.

Somehow, in the midst of her misery, she managed some words of farewell which she prayed had been appropriate, said thanks to Françoise as the maid gave her cloak and opened the door for her. The wind on the street was cold. It turned the tears that ran down her cheeks into icy rivulets.

* * *

**Author's notes: **The last chapter was also quite short... So you also got two chapters this time! I thought it was all right, since we are getting close to the end of the story. 

Thank you all so much for your reviews! Keep them coming!


	38. Chapter 38

* * *

Erik rolled on his side and contemplated the armchair longingly. It looked so inviting, standing by the fire. He imagined how comfortable it would be to sit upright, to let his arms lean on the armrests, to steeple his fingers in front of him, to stretch his legs in the direction of the fire. It would be pure bliss just to sit up without slouching on the pillows, to be free of the weight of the comforter and the many blankets Gracie and Françoise had piled upon him. He snorted. Ridiculous women. As if one could cure the after effects of a stroke by keeping the patient well wrapped up. He smiled and remembered his last quarrel with them, that same morning. It had taken him more than half an hour to convince them he didn't need any company at least for a few hours, and then he had been so exhausted after so much arguing that he had fallen asleep, and had woken up to find Gracie waiting by the side of his bed. Fortunately, this time it had only taken a quick short-tempered reply to scare her off. He shook his head when he thought he would have to apologise when she showed up again. Those two were hopeless. 

He eyed the armchair again, a glimpse of the Promised Land. Sitting on the chair meant he was not laid up any more. It meant that he was not sick, or at least that he was getting better. It meant he would soon be able to resume his life. Erik sighed. The chair was only about six or seven yards away but he was so weak that it might, as well, be on the other side of France.

He nudged the pillows with his shoulder, trying to find a more comfortable position. He whisked away the fringes of the blanket, which were tickling his chin. When the fringes bounced back, he pushed everything, comforter and blankets, down to his waist. His hip started to itch. There was a bump in the mattress. No matter how hard he tried, he knew he wouldn't find a comfortable position. With a jerk, he flung the covers away and slung his legs over the edge of the bed. He couldn't stand lying in that confounded bed any longer.

Slowly, leaning on his arm, he sat up. He clenched his teeth against the bout of nausea. He swallowed hard and concentrated on taking deep breaths when the floor started swaying. If he kept breathing and relaxed a little, his heart would be forced to take in the little extra effort and the light-headedness would disappear in a while. Then he could attempt to stand up, using the headboard for support. And then he would brave the few steps to the armchair. He doubted he would make it that far without anything to lean on, but he would try. He was sure he would die if he didn't get away from that bed.

His left hand grabbed the head of the board tightly and he stood on shaking legs. The world began gaining a greenish tint and Erik hurled himself forward. If he doubted a second more, he would end up fainting in the middle of the room. He managed to give two steps and then he began to come down, but thanks to his long legs, he had by then reached the vicinity of the chair. He clutched the arm of the chair and prayed it would sustain his weight instead of toppling over. As if in slow motion, his knees buckled and hit the carpet with a low thud, but he remained somehow upright. He breathed in and out, in and out until the room had cleared again. Then, with a grunt, he pulled himself to his feet.

And just then, the door swung open. Françoise, a cup of tea in her hand, goggled at him. Erik cursed under his breath.

"But Monsieur!" she exclaimed. "What are you doing?"

She hurried towards him, but Erik flopped onto the chair before she even came close. He looked up to her with a victorious glance. It hadn't been a dignified movement, but he had succeeded in reaching his destination. He would be damned if he let her lead him back to bed now.

Françoise stared at him, the corners of her mouth turned down in a reproachful scowl.

"It's too soon for you to be out of bed, Monsieur."

"Says who?" asked Erik with a smirk.

"Says Doctor Albaret."

"Nonsense," scoffed Erik. "That lad can't tell his hands from his elbows."

"You didn't seem to believe that when you discussed your treatment with him, Monsieur," countered Françoise, but she was already pushing the occasional table to the side of the chair and setting the cup on top of it.

Erik's smile widened. He slowly stretched his legs towards the fire while Françoise retrieved his slippers and a blanket. He was about to protest about the blanket, but thought better about it. It was a bit chilly in the room, anyway. He spread it over his legs. Then, with a slightly shaking hand, he took the cup and had a sip under Françoise's watchful gaze. He returned the cup to the saucer and looked at her evenly.

"Is there anything else you need, Monsieur?"

"No, Françoise, thank you."

She nodded and made her way out of the room. She was about to cross the threshold when he called her back.

"Françoise. . ."

"Yes?"

Françoise couldn't help a pang of worry when she looked at Monsieur Devaux. There was something amiss. He looked sort of. . . tentative.

"Would you happen to know if. . ." Monsieur Devaux made a pause and bit his lip. "If Mademoiselle Daaé has called in?"

She stared at him, alarmed. She had heard when Monsieur Kahn had told him she had dropped by and stayed the whole afternoon and evening the day of the attack. Had he forgotten about it?

"I mean. . . after Wednesday."

Françoise frowned. Hadn't Gracie told him?

"Certainly, Monsieur. She has called in every evening. Unfortunately you have been sleeping."

He nodded, carefully keeping his features neutral, but Françoise could read his enormous relief in his whole posture.

"Thank you Françoise. That will be all."

Françoise curtsied and carefully closed the door behind her. She would have to have a couple of words with Gracie.

* * *

Nadir came into the room and dropped the newspaper on Erik's lap. 

"I was told you were out of bed this morning," he remarked casually while he pushed the armchair closer to the foot of the bed and sat down.

"I'm not taking reproaches from you, Daroga," scowled Erik as he scanned the headlines.

"I was going to congratulate you," shrugged Nadir.

Erik nodded and apparently was taken over by the first page of the newspaper. Nadir waited patiently. He was sure the first page didn't have anything that could be that interesting and had spotted the spark of anger in Erik's eyes.

"Why didn't you tell me Mademoiselle Daaé had been dropping by the last four days, Daroga?" fumed Erik, and he turned the page.

"I didn't know she had been," was Nadir's smooth reply.

Erik lifted his gaze and pinned Nadir to the back of the chair.

"Do you expect me to believe that?"

Nadir nodded.

"I haven't been here when she has come," he defended himself.

Erik stared at Nadir. If his gaze had some power to destroy, Nadir was sure he would have been reduced to a pile of ashes on the spot. Then, after a beat, Erik frowned. He looked away and massaged his eyebrow with his thumb.

"You're right," he said. "Françoise said she has come in the evenings."

"There you go," commented Nadir.

He waited for the harsh reply that would follow his awfully carefree remark, but Erik said nothing. He looked at the newspaper instead.

There was a long silence, in which Nadir studied the effects of the afternoon sun gleaming through the bottles of prescriptions that crowded Erik's nightstand.

"Why do you think she has been coming in the evenings, Daroga?"

Erik's smooth tone and nonchalant expression didn't trick Nadir. This was everything _but_ casual talking.

"It is my belief that Mademoiselle Daaé has moved to Paris. She has probably found an occupation that does not allow her to come during the day."

Erik's visible eyebrow quirked upwards.

"Is that so? And why would you come through such ideas, Daroga?"

"That first evening, that is, the day you fell ill. . ."

"Last Wednesday," Erik reminded him.

"Last Wednesday," Nadir repeated. "Darius accompanied her to a boarding house. The landlady greeted her most familiarly."

Nadir tried not to smile smugly as Erik stopped pretending to be immersed in the newspaper.

"To a boarding house?"

Nadir nodded. Erik's forehead creased.

"Why on earth would she. . .?"

Nadir shrugged.

"I don't know. I guess you'll have to ask her," he said.

Erik blew out a huff of air and turned the page briskly.

"Shut up, Daroga," he grumbled.

* * *

**Author's notes: **Sorry for the lack of update yesterday. Real life got in the way. Thank you all for your comments. Just keep them coming!  



	39. Chapter 39

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Christine breathed in, raised her hand and knocked. She listened carefully for the footsteps she knew would come closer, down the hall. She had come to recognize Françoise's footsteps in her many visits during the last months. Those footsteps were the last preamble to the best hours of her week. Christine looked down, as she fought a pang of disappointment. Erik would not be waiting in the sitting room for her. There wouldn't be warm tea and amiable conversation by the fire. Erik was still confined to bed, and she barely got any news from his daughter, who didn't fail to offer her tea in her iciest, most dismissive tone of voice. Christine always declined, never stayed longer than a few minutes to listen to the latest news. She hadn't dared to ask Gracie to let her see Erik again. 

The door opened and Françoise greeted her with a warm smile.

"Good evening, Mademoiselle. Thank God you came early today. He is waiting for you."

Christine stared at Françoise, dumbfounded.

"Monsieur. . . Monsieur Kahn?" she stuttered, at last.

Françoise laughed, took Christine by the elbow and gently pulled her into the apartment.

"No, Mademoiselle. Monsieur Devaux. May I take your cloak?"

Mademoiselle's eyes got wider, if possible.

"May I take your cloak, Mademoiselle?" prodded Françoise with an amused smile.

She had to tug one of the laces that held Mademoiselle's cloak before Mademoiselle reacted and undid them. Françoise hung the garment and extended her hand.

"Your gloves?"

"What? Oh. . . yes, certainly," said Mademoiselle taking them off.

Suddenly she seemed to realise what was happening:

"Do you have a mirror? I would like to. . ."

She indicated her unruly curls. Some strands had escaped her chignon and hung loosely around her face.

Françoise opened the closet besides the entrance. There was a large mirror on the back of the door. Of course, thought Christine, Erik would not tolerate a mirror in his hall, but he wouldn't neglect his daughter's need for checking her appearance before going out. Jesus. Her hair was a mess. After pulling and tugging and trying to tuck the loose strands in, she finally gave up. She frowned when she noticed the dark marks under her eyes, the puffiness of her eyelids. Would he notice them? And what about her paleness? Christine pinched her cheeks, hoping to bring some colour to them. She smoothed the front of her dress and finally she turned around to face Françoise. The maid waved a hand, motioning her down the hall. She stopped by the second door to the right, but instead of knocking, she turned around and faced Christine.

"He's been out of bed today for the first time, Mademoiselle. And he's usually asleep at this hour. . . You'll not stay too long, will you?" she whispered, a worried look on her face.

Christine felt an irrepressible urge to hug her; such was the caring concern in Françoise's voice. She nodded.

Then Françoise knocked at the door and said:

"Mademoiselle Daaé."

And Christine went in and the door closed behind her.

There was hearty fire on the fireplace, to the right. A lamp stood on the mantelpiece, its flame not quite turned up. The light in the room was dim, but not much dimmer than in the hall, and Christine's eyes quickly adjusted to the change. She hardly noticed the Persian carpet, the desk looming in the shadows, the nightstand, the armchair. Her eyes immediately darted towards the bed. There, leaning on a mound of pillows, was Erik. He lifted a shaky hand, palm up. The visible corner of his mouth quirked in a welcoming smile. Christine was struck by his mussed hair, by the deep lines on the uncovered half of his face, by the white nightshirt he was wearing, but soon her surprise gave way to her elation and she rushed to his side. She bent over him and, a little awkwardly, put her hands on his shoulders in an attempt to hug him. She kissed him gently on his uncovered cheek. She lingered there, longer than was proper, relishing his spicy scent, the warmth of his skin. She pulled back, chuckled an emotional hiccup and blinked back tears.

"I'm so happy to see you again," she breathed.

Erik didn't speak. Christine eyed him with nervousness, uncertain at what his reaction at her emotional greeting would be. He wasn't used to bodily contact. It always startled and agitated him. Even during the first days they had spent together in his underground home, he had limited their touch to a handful of occasions. He had actually avoided any contact between them since they had started seeing each other again. Her eyes darted away, embarrassed at her own lack of control. She hoped he wasn't too shocked. Christine looked down at her hands, now entwined in front of her in a tight knot.

"Oh, Christine," whispered Erik in a barely audible voice.

Christine shuddered at the undercurrent of emotion that ran in his voice. She gathered enough courage to look at him again, and was startled at what she saw. Instead of the disgust she thought she would find in his eyes, they were shiny, the intensity that had always burnt in them even brighter.

Christine smiled and sat beside him on the bed, unable and unwilling to widen the distance between them. Greatly daring, she grabbed one of his hands and held it between hers, a movement from which Erik's shyness did not shrink. Christine thanked whatever guardian angel was protecting them, and idly caressed Erik's long fingers, noticing their coldness.

Erik stared at their hands. Never had she initiated contact between them before. He was dying, melting inside at this unspeakable sweetness. Christine started rubbing the back of his hand and he realised she was trying to warm it. He smiled apologetically, conscious of how displeasing the feel of his cold, clammy fingers must be. He made a weak, half-hearted attempt at withdrawing his hand.

"It will not warm up," he warned her. "Bad circulation. . . I'm sorry."

Ashamed of himself, he pulled a little harder, only to discover that she wouldn't relinquish her hold on his hand. She squeezed it instead, with a shy smile. She shook her head.

"I'm sorry," he offered again, for he didn't know what else to say.

"What for?"

He cleared his throat, gave out a self-deprecating snort.

"For presenting you a mere grey speck of a man."

"Oh, Erik," she sighed.

Was that disapproval in her voice? She gently squeezed his hand again, and Erik suddenly felt trapped. He didn't know how to carry on with this situation. The emotional turmoil she caused by simply being near him was all too much. He took in a deep, controlled breath and searched his mind for something, any comment that would draw them away from this. How he wished he could stand and pace the room! His hands were shaking, his chest tight. He looked up, expecting her to still be looking down, but met her eyes instead. She was watching him intently. Was there a flicker of concern in the blue depths? He squirmed and she suddenly released his hand, stood up. The sudden coldness on his skin was unbearable, and it was as if light was receding from the room. She was drawing away.

"No, please, stay," he begged and almost winced at the pitiful note of longing in his voice.

He looked at her through the haze that seemed to cover everything around him but her. She blinked, smiled, and nervously tucked a curl behind her ear.

"Am I. . . Am I not bothering you?" her voice was uncertain.

"What? No. . . please," he patted the side of the bed, tried to smile through his weariness.

As if it was one of his dreams, the crazy fantasies his idle head spun stirred by his foolish heart, her smile grew wider and she sat back, took his hand again. Erik could only smile, could only contemplate her with what he was certain was an utterly stupid look on his face. After a while, he was able to speak again.

"Thank you, Christine."

Christine shuddered at the warmth of his voice.

"What for?"

"For coming by," he answered.

_For touching me, for smiling at me, for caring,_ his ridiculous heart cried.

"I was so worried about you. . ." she looked into his eyes intently. "You are getting better, aren't you?"

He nodded, once again at a lack for words. He was exhausted and dizzy, but he wasn't certain that it was due to his illness. Her nearness made thinking impossible.

"Really?"

He nodded again.

"Promise?"

Erik couldn't help but chuckle at the childish sincerity of her tone. It was only when his bout of laughter had passed that he noticed the satisfied grin on her face. The little minx. Erik shook his head, sobered enough to start guiding the conversation to the subject he wanted to discuss.

"And how have you been?"

She shrugged.

"I'm fine, Erik," her tone told him that she didn't want to talk about herself.

"Nadir said you had moved to Paris."

It took her some time to nod.

"And you've stopped teaching music."

Now he was bluffing, but he had the distinct feeling that Christine had been withholding something from him for some time now, and he really wanted to find it out. Christine bolted slightly, as if pinched. Erik was afraid he'd gone too far, but then, to his relief, she just nodded again.

"What. . .?"

"I have found another occupation," she interrupted him. And when he opened his mouth, she quickly added:

"I needed a change of airs, Erik. I missed the city. And. . . I wanted to be closer. . ." suddenly, her boldness seemed to have left her and she grew quiet.

Erik nodded, understandingly.

"Wanted to be closer to your old friends," he finished for her.

He had to swallow the sudden knot in his throat.

"How has Meg Giry been doing?" he asked, with all the nonchalance he could muster.

She frowned, unable to understand why Meg had popped up in their conversation.

"Meg? I haven't. . . I haven't seen Meg in a long time, Erik. We wrote for a while and she visited a couple of times but the last one was. . . I think it was four years ago. I wanted to be closer to you."

She heard him take in a shuddering breath, saw him close his eyes. He was fighting her words again, not daring to believe. Monsieur Kahn was so right. Erik _was_ the master of denial. But he was quite right in mistrusting her, after she had betrayed him and run away from him. If only she had been more mature back then. . . She took a deep breath. She'd better leave the past be, and be mature and wise now. He was weak, ill and tired. She took in his drawn face, his shaky hands, the way in which he had reclined his head on the pillows. She patted his hand.

"You need your rest, and here I am bothering you," she said lightly. "It's already late. . ."

She started to rise.

His reaction was stunning. His eyes shot open and he grabbed her hand.

"No, please. . . stay."

Christine felt a surge of hope at his words. She sat down again.

"But not for long. Françoise will murder me if I tire you."

He chuckled, and despite the fact that his low, hoarse laughter was another sign of his weakness, she smiled victoriously. She loved the sound of it.

"A little bit," he whispered.

"All right," she finally acquiesced.

They didn't talk. They enjoyed a warm, companionable silence instead. After a while, Erik's eyes started fluttering. He was fighting sleep, but evidently wasn't winning the battle. Inwardly, she rebelled against the fact that her visit was over, but stilled herself. She _had_ to leave now. She leaned forward, caressed his cheek with the back of her fingers. She imagined he turned ever so slightly towards her caress.

"You must sleep now, Erik," she whispered.

And she kissed his cheek.

He didn't react, didn't stiffen or recoil at her touch. He must have fallen asleep, she thought. Carefully, she disentangled her hand from his, but when she had just stood up, his eyes drowsily opened again.

"Christine?" he muttered.

"Yes?"

"Come back tomorrow?"

"Yes, Erik. I will."

"Promise?"

Christine chuckled. A half-smile curved the visible corner of Erik's mouth.

"Yes."

His eyes slid shut again, but he lifted his hand, trustingly, and she squeezed it one last time before forcing herself to turn around and walk out of the room.

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**Author's notes: **thank you everybody for the reviews. I hope some of your questions were answered in this chapter... I really love your comments!  



	40. Chapter 40

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**Author's note: **Rossignol, get your blanket and your cup of cocoa before reading further.

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Gracie paced the sitting room thoughtfully. She rearranged the small trinkets on the mantelpiece and then the scrolls on the coffee table. These were some new ones, she noticed. Louis must have brought them today. She shook her head ruefully. That morning, Papa had insisted on sitting up for Louis's visit and then they had spent more than an hour discussing one of their latest projects, although Louis had insisted on leaving several times. Papa had ensnared him into staying at least three times before Françoise had finally cast the architect out. Her intrusion had provoked a bout of ill humour in Papa, who firmly believed there was no need for Françoise and Gracie to mother him as much as they did. 

Part of his protest had consisted in refusing to eat lunch when Gracie had brought him the tray. He had also refused to talk and even to look at her, staring instead into the fire, but his tantrum had not fooled her. She had noticed the slight tremor in his hands, the sheen of sweat that covered his forehead and silently she had offered him her arm. He had looked at her with a scathing stare, but after some time he had hesitantly accepted her support to give the few steps to the bed. He had collapsed onto it and had barely had time to mumble a vague apology before he fell asleep.

Gracie absently tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear as she sighed. He was like a small child. It didn't fit into his stubborn head that although he was feeling better that didn't mean he could work yet. And Louis. . . he was another child. He allowed Papa to trick him into working although he had been told that Papa would not resist working for over an hour.

Gracie sank into the couch wondering at how the adults in her life had started behaving like children. She felt strangely bereft, having to take decisions about the house and their economies and her life all by herself. Without her noticing, Papa had consistently been leaving more and more responsibilities into her hands in the course of the last six months. As soon as she finished school, he left all the household matters in her hands. Gracie decided what they were going to eat, went over the list of groceries and supplies with Françoise and took over all the accounts of the apartment.

It hadn't been bad, at the start. In fact, it had been exciting to be able to do some small repairs in the apartment that he had always forgotten about. She had hired workmen to repair the ceiling in the dining room, secure the railing of the balcony and paint the whole apartment. She had also bought a new carpet for her room and renovated the upholstering of the couch and Papa's armchairs. She had even contacted Papa's tailor and ordered a set of new shirts and two complete suits. She had chosen light fabrics in a creamy colour that she'd never seem him wear before and had bought a pair of shoes to match them. He had been utterly surprised when she had presented him with the suits, but had worn them during the whole summer, apparently pleased with the smoothness of the fabric.

A month later, he had called Uncle Nadir and his lawyer in, and had extended a power of attorney so she could manage his bank account. He had cheerfully downplayed her fears at his actions, stating that now that she was not studying anymore, it was fair enough that she took over the management of their money while he still looked after how to keep it coming in. Nadir deserved to retire from his long administrative career, at least partially. And no matter how much his decision had terrified her then, it had also proven practical. Now that he was ill, she had been able to pay all of the doctor's bills and the medicines without having to recur to third parties.

The straw that broke the camel's back had come two days ago. He had called Uncle Nadir to explain to her about the investments which Uncle Nadir still managed, including the books of _Menand and Devaux_. Then she had really panicked. With a hollow in her stomach, she had hurried to his room and demanded to know why he was passing all of his economic responsibilities on to her. He had only patted the side of his bed with a weary smile. When she had finally agreed to sit down, he had held her hand and told her she was old enough to know about these things. Although she hadn't found out yet what she wanted to become in her life, it didn't hurt to be able to administrate her belongings. When she had protested that they weren't her belongings but his, he had suddenly sobered and breached the subject they both had been avoiding since she was nine. Surely by then she knew he could go at any minute, he had said. He could as well live twenty years more or he could die the day after tomorrow. She had shaken her head in desperate denial and thrown herself against him to silence him. He had held her for a long time, shushing her and stroking her hair as he had done countless times in the past. But it hadn't prevented him from finishing his argument. It was a fact, he had said. Something they had to live with, and the more conscious they were about it, the better.

Gracie pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes. Talking about the possibility of him dying didn't make it any easier to accept. Just as it wasn't easy to keep him in bed when he obviously was bored to tears, or dismissing Louis when it was evident Papa wanted nothing else than to work with him. Or having to show, evening after evening, Mademoiselle Daaé into his room. Gracie rubbed her eyes furiously. In regard to Mademoiselle Daaé he behaved more childishly than in regard to anything else. Gracie couldn't stand the look of helpless welcome with which he received the former prima donna, although she reined her anger for his sake, and had even tried to be polite to the woman.

Speaking in earnest, Gracie couldn't state anymore that the woman really wanted to take advantage of him. During the last ten days Mademoiselle Daaé had been visiting every evening, but she was always careful not to stay too long, so as not to tire him. She always brought a story or an amusing anecdote, always made him laugh. And the way she talked to him and the way she now touched him. . . It seemed as if Mademoiselle Daaé's prudish reserves had all collapsed with Papa's illness. She greeted him with a kiss and she hugged him, and held his hand. . . Gracie could almost believe it was out of a genuine attachment to him.

And she kept clinging to her proud independence. Even after Papa had discovered her lowly occupation and meagre means, she kept on protesting that she was quite all right. She never complained about her long hours of work, never said she was hungry although she eyed the sandwiches and the petite gateaux with wide predatory eyes when she thought no one was watching. Moreover, she categorically refused to accept any help whatsoever. She had even grown infuriated once Papa had suggested he could give her a small stipend. Most astonishingly, her fury had silenced him. He hadn't broached the subject in her subsequent visits. It was the first time Gracie had seen Papa give up so fast. It was utterly disconcerting.

She absently unrolled one of the scrolls and looked at the design. The façade of a beautiful villa stared back at her. It was a lovely middle-size two-storey building. She wondered for whom were they building it, and idly opened the other scrolls. She had learnt enough architecture from Papa to understand the proportions and characteristics of the edifice. It would be an airy, well-lit house. Its orientation would make it cool during the summer but not too obscure during winter, and it had a lovely terrace on the back.

Gracie sighed. Papa had been insisting, in the last two years, that she decide herself on a trade, and that she found out something she wanted to dedicate herself to. She didn't need to earn any money, but it wouldn't do to sit at home and wait for a husband just like most of her schoolmates were wont to do. She was much too smart for that, and she would die of boredom if she only occupied herself with dresses and dinners. Gracie agreed with him, but she hadn't found out yet what he wanted to do.

She was no musician, although she enjoyed playing the piano immensely. She lacked the spark that she could clearly perceive in his compositions, the inner current of empathy with each and every sound he played. She didn't have the slightest intention to become an architect or an engineer, either. The profession entailed too much physics and mathematics and to tell the truth she had never been good with numbers. What she liked the best about Papa's trade was to watch the planes and designs, but more because of the proportions of the drawings themselves than for what they represented. She enjoyed even more looking at real paintings. She could spend hours in the galleries of the Louvre, and she had been thrilled by Monsieur Manet's last exhibitions. The artist she admired the most was some obscure man from the Netherlands, a certain Monsieur Van Gogh, whose paintings she had seen in a little second rate gallery some time ago. When she had seen the deep yellows and dark browns and the coarse figures of peasants and worn objects, something had stirred within her. And yet, she knew she was no painter herself. She could draw well enough, but the spark was also missing in her pictures.

A knock at the door stirred Gracie from her thoughts, and she wearily stood up from the couch. Françoise was baking biscuits, and she would not be able to open the door anytime soon. Gracie smirked in annoyance as she crossed the hall and noticed that a flour-covered Françoise had appeared by the door to the kitchen. Oh, it was so infuriating that Françoise would not trust her to allow Mademoiselle Daaé into Papa's room! With a little more force than necessary, Gracie unbolted and opened the door. Her annoyance vanished at the sight that met her eyes.

Mademoiselle Daaé was standing on the landing, with a furry, restless golden bundle in her arms. The bundle had a wet, black nose and brown eyes. It was a puppy.

"Good afternoon," Mademoiselle Daaé greeted.

"Is that for Papa?" asked Gracie with a frown.

"Do you think he will like it? I talked to doctor Albaret and he said it wouldn't do Erik any harm to have a pet around. And he likes dogs so. . ."

"Did he tell you about Sasha?"

Mademoiselle Daaé blinked.

"Excuse me?"

"Sasha," repeated Gracie as if the dog's name was enough information.

The woman's baffled countenance made it clear she had never known about Papa's childhood companion. The race of the dog was but a mere coincidence. Gracie shook herself.

"Please, come in," she mustered.

Mademoiselle Daaé stepped into the foyer, still eyeing Gracie with confusion. Gracie took the woman's cloak and held the dog while she took off her gloves and her bonnet. Gracie caressed the dog's head and it whined with pleasure. It surely was a dear little thing.

"You don't think he will like it?"

Gracie looked up, and she noticed how Mademoiselle Daaé recoiled ever so slightly. It was as if she believed Gracie would slap her. Mademoiselle Daaé was unusually timorous around Gracie, as if she was somewhat ashamed of herself. In the past few days, Gracie had almost enjoyed that. She had profited from the chance and made as many hidden remarks as she could about the former diva's betrayal of Papa's love. She had seen Mademoiselle Daaé cringe over and over in regret. But, strangely enough, Gracie's need to set the scores straight seemed to have vanished today. Instead of the long cherished resentment there was something close to. . . sympathy. Gracie smiled.

"I think he will love it," she said.

The worried lines on Mademoiselle Daaé's brow disappeared. Perhaps she should tell Mademoiselle Daaé about Sasha? Gacie slapped herself mentally immediately. No. The former diva could be acting humanely towards Papa, and perhaps her actions were due to a genuine care for him, but it didn't mean Gracie should start telling her about Papa's past. But perhaps it was time to start treating her with a little bit more courtesy.

"Come in. He's waiting for you."

She went down the hall, knocked and opened the door, but instead of closing it after Mademoiselle Daaé had entered, she lingered by the threshold. There was no way she was missing Papa seeing the dog for the first time.

He had been reading a book and he had evidently closed it as soon as he heard the knock at the door. He was putting it on the nightstand. He turned around, a warm glint in his eyes that immediately changed into wide-eyed surprise when he spotted the puppy.

"Christine, what. . . ?" he breathed. "Why. . .?"

Mademoiselle Daaé had walked to the side of his bed by then and bent to give him a kiss on his exposed cheek. With the same fluid movement, she left the dog on his lap. The dog faltered, trying to find its balance on Papa's long legs, and immediately one of Papa's hands came up to steady it. He looked down at the furry ball. His hand caressed the tiny head, his long fingers instinctively found the base of the dog's ears and he scratched. The dog whined in pleasure, and its pink tongue darted out, licking the fingers of Papa's other hand. Papa smiled an open, joyful smile.

"It's your Christmas present," Mademoiselle Daaé said sitting on the chair by the bed, a hand gently lying on Papa's forearm.

Her words resounded in Gracie's heart. She suddenly felt an irresistible urge to make amends, and for once she decided it was not worth it to hold on to her grievance.

"Then you shall bring it back on Christmas Eve, Mademoiselle," she said. "We'll be having dinner early, won't we, Papa?"

Papa and Mademoiselle Daaé stared at her in shock and disbelief. Gracie smiled wickedly and winked.

"Françoise makes a fabulous goose."

And before they could start stuttering, she turned around and made her way down the hall, chuckling to herself.

_The end_

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**Another note from the author: **Well, that was it... I apologise for not updating sooner. I guess I didn't want to part from the story, so I managed to hold it back twenty-four hours.

Thank you all _so much_ for all your comments, questions and kind words. It has really been a pleasure to relive the story through your eyes, as you read it. Please, tell me what you think about it as a whole.

My fondest greetings,

Stine.


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